


The Ink Isn't Dry Yet

by Tahkaullus01



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because my Heart is Broken and I Need to do This!, Bran is NOT Evil, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dire Wolves Are Just As Cool As Dragons, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, I Made Up a Magic Language, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Jon Snow Came Back Wrong, Jon Snow Knows Something, King of the Wargs, Nightmares, No Direwolves were Harmed in the Making of this Story, Red Wedding, The Lord of Light Fucked it All Up, The Prince That Was Promised is Bullshit!, Time Travel, and now we're gonna fix it, fight me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-03-09 19:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tahkaullus01/pseuds/Tahkaullus01
Summary: The past may be written...but every good song went through a rough draft first.Ten years have passed since the day he killed her. Ten years with nights of nothing but nightmares beginning with silver hair and violet eyes and ending in merciless cold. But the Realm was at peace, so Jon accepted it. Until the tenth anniversary, when the dreams are the worst, and the Broken King summons the King of the Wargs to the Wierwood Tree of the Three-Eyed-Raven.There he is given a mission: Rewrite the Song...and try not to get stabbed to death while he's at it.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> And so begins what I suspect will be a long standing tradition of time-travel fix-its. I'm not the first and most certainly won't be the last to try my hand at this, but I wanted to get in while I could still think up a tale.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams and warging. Also trees. Dead trees but trees all the same.
> 
> Also Tormund is here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's ten years later. Because I say so. In that time stuff happened. Not really important, just need to get Jon in position. Also I'm an evil, evil man, so we'll be torturing him just a wee bit.

10 AR (After Reunification)

He dreamt an old dream, of a ship and a pledge, of remorse over a fallen dragon, and most of all  _her._

In the dream he lay in a bed of furs as he had in life, stripped of his frozen clothing that had brought on the fever that nearly killed him a second time, cold despite all the layers they had bundled him up in. This was the Queen's chambers on her ship, given up to save his life after their excursion North on a fool's errand. Once Jon could have described every aspect of this cabin but the years leech at a man's memories, even those that he claimed to cherish above all others. In the dream it was reduced to shadows cut in by whisps of light here and there.

They were sailing for Dragonstone, the Wight sealed in the hold and the Queen's men recovering on deck. But the Queen stayed, she stayed by his side as he lay there trying to come back to life again, all the while trying to hold back her own grief. He'd seen it then as he saw it now, for she was no shadow; even after ten years her face burned clear. Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons...and she was looking down at him with something between sadness and relief.

But he couldn't feel that relief because the first thing he remembered was what the trip had cost them, had cost  _her._

_Viserion._

"I'm sorry..." Jon whispered out, recalling how the Dragons were children to her. Reaching with what strength he had, he took her ghostly hand in his and said again. "I am so sorry...I wish I could take it back. I wish we'd never gone."

She just smiled and shook her head, regal mask in place holding back tears in those amethyst eyes. "I don't. If we hadn't gone, I wouldn't have seen. You have to see it to know...now I know."

But the cost...

"The Dragons are my children." She told him. "They're the only children I'll ever have. Do you understand?"

He could only nod, not really understanding but unwilling to push it considering he was the reason that child was dead.

"We are going to destroy the Night King and his army." She told him suddenly, the embers of her grief replaced with a burning determination. "We'll do it together. You have my word."

Together...he felt an immeasurable weight leave his shoulders, is this what triumph felt like? Gods he wanted to crow his victory but, weak as he was, all he could manage was a whispered "Thank you Dany."

His words put an end to the serious talk, her face lighting up in a bemused smile. "Dany? Who was the last person who called me that? Who was it, my brother? Mmm...not the sort of company you want to keep."

Her brother? He saw her warning beneath the humour and let it go. Something for another time then. "Alright. Not Dany...how about 'My Queen?'"

She wore surprise as well as any other expression on her face, he would've laughed if he could. "I'd bend the knee but..."

"Am I?" 

The question came so innocently, so light and gentle that any man might have thought it genuine curiosity. Not Jon. For him, the light vanished, the cabin dropping into darkness, lit up only by her...and he felt dread. It was happening again.

"Am I your Queen? Was I ever?" 

He didn't want to look up - down - at her, he knew what he would see, and yet his eyes pulled back to her face. He clothes were the same, that typical Targaryen black and red, but her hair was tied differently, no silver locks splaying over her shoulders but tied back emulating the Dothraki braiding custom. But he barely noticed this, eyes focussed solely on the dagger now sticking in her chest.  _His_ dagger.

"I was your Queen..." she told him, that same tiny trickle of blood running down her lip as she stared down - up - at him from the ash covered ground of the Red Keep. "and you betrayed me."

"I had to." It rang hollow in his head, no matter how right those words were. "Dany, I had to."

"No you didn't." And then the last light in her eyes died away, her face empty of all feeling save that same almost childish look of shock she'd worn the first time he killed her. Would that this was the worst.

_Please...let it end like this. Please..._

But it didn't. The still air around them suddenly picked up a gust...a cutting, unkind wind, blowing in from the North. The kind that Old Nan had told stories about, the storm that foretold the march of death on the living.

_Winter is coming._

And it came for her. 

_Don't. Please Dany, don't!_

Her corpse didn't heed him, the unnatural icy cold already working through his gloves as her porcelain Valyrian skin turned a frozen blue, her neck cracking around in that horrid way he'd witnessed too many times before. And her eyes...gone were the fiery purple orbs, replaced with all-encompassing, lifeless blue.

_Winter is Coming._

With horrific grace, her hands reached out to him and Jon, as ever, was unable to move away from them no matter how desperately he tried to. Where was Drogon? Where was Drogon?! The icy fingers touched his cheeks in a mockery of a lover's caress, and then the freezing came. 

Cold. So cold. 

_Winter. Is. Coming._

 

"NO!"

"Snow!"

The rough accent filled his ears and Jon shot up. Gone suddenly was the darkness, gone was the Red Keep and the cabin, and that awful spectre that his dreams always ended on. As usual it took him a moment to remember where he was, the icy grip of his nights making the cool chill of the True North near impossible to distinguish. But it was there, that tiny undercurrent of warmth from the embers of the camp's fire from the night before, and that made all the difference.

There was no sign of the sun yet, though the night was starting to give way to day so dawn couldn't be too far off. Enough time for a short nap if he wanted it...he didn't want it.

"Which one was it this time?" That tough brogue again had him turning around to face the only other member of the camp who was awake. The years had been kind to Tormund, though he'd lost some of the red in his hair and beard and maybe he wasn't as fast with a blade anymore, there was still a lightness in his eyes that had never died. That lightness was dimmed somewhat though as he regarded the unofficial leader of the Free Folk. 

Sighing, Jon just sat back, not bothering with a lie. "The boat."

"First time, or second?"

"First." 

His friend let out a short 'hmm,' as he always did after Jon told him which one of his nightmares had come to plague him over the last ten years, and left it at that. He'd given up trying to convince him to let her go nine years ago, instead settling for being his silent sounding board. "Getting to that time again, you'll probably be seeing the second one soon enough."

"Maybe not this time." It was a vain hope. He  _always_ dreamed a good dream on the day, making them the worst nights of all. Because for one night in a year, Jon felt that all encompassing warmth again, of love and hope, of  _home._

And then he would wake up. The first time he wept like a baby, he'd thought he'd dreamed the last year.

Still, it was what it was; he was here and she was dead. Nothing for it but to keep moving. Moving was good up here. Kept you warm. And speaking of, "Better get the others up, we'll miss the herd if we're not careful."

"Hah!" Giantsbane let out a disbelieving scoff. "With your wolf's nose and your crow eyes? Never happen, Jon Snow."

* * *

Tormund was right of course, something Jon would never let him know, but it gave an excuse to get his mind on something else even if it was for just the day. Their band had been following a herd of woolly cows for the last three turns of the moon, one of Jon's better ideas as it turned out. These animals had provided them with more than just food, they had used the skins and bones for their tents, the pelts for new clothing and even their teeth had their uses. A plentiful harvest that saw nothing go to waste.

The only issue was the herd was always on the move so they had to be too and the snows could make it hard to find the animals especially if a blizzard came through. Fortunately, the last ten years had produced new talents in Jon Snow. 

Because of his nightmares he no longer had wolf dreams, something he'd told Tormund who in turn had in turn explained that he must be a warg. What followed was lessons with what surviving skinchangers there were in the Free Folk until Jon could slip inside Ghost's mind again whenever he wished. Jump forward to the present day and such a trick was only one of the things he'd been taught. 

He could speak the Old Tongue now, which made conversing with the Thenns much simpler whenever they ran into them. Didn't mean he hated them any less. But it was useful in other ways.

It had been a good distraction. Especially when he wanted to stave off sleep and the horrors that waited for him there.

The day passed much the same as it always did, break camp, hunt a cow, eat, make camp again, and try not to fall asleep.

Tormund told everyone it was his holding on to his Crow days, and for that he loved the man. He was the only one up here who didn't ask about it, the only one who knew everything. He didn't understand, Jon could tell, but he didn't push for an explanation or force him to let her go, he just did what he could for his friend.

He was asleep now, nestled up to one of whichever woman he felt like tonight much like the rest of the camp, leaving Jon awake beside the fire as always. 

Well, not completely alone. A small huff at his side was all the greeting he got as Ghost wandered into camp and plopped himself at his side. The years had done the last of the Stark Wolves well, on all fours he was now up to Jon's chin, making ruffling his white furry head a lot easier, and their bond had only grown stronger after Jon embraced his skinchanging abilities. Would that he had learned how to do this all those years ago, who knew what they might have been able to do together?

"Find a good meal?" He asked his friend, noting the red around his muzzle. Ghost just huffed again, maybe telling him 'yes and it was delicious, far better than your cow.' Regardless, he just ruffled the fur around his neck leading Ghost to drop down into his lap with a heavy thud.

"Easy, old man!" Jon chided him lightly, "We're not as young as we used to be."

Ghost just nudged his chest in response, his human might be old but a Direwolf like him? Bah! He'd live forever!

Chuckling at his wolf's indignation, Jon just ruffled his hair again before turning his eyes skyward. No moon tonight. Not exactly a problem but without moonlight it was going to make birds harder to spot. He'd have to rely on his ears, wait for one to make their usual nightly rounds. 

A whine from his hip brought him back down to Ghost who was looking up at him with those sad intelligent Wierwood eyes of his, he never liked it when his human did this. Warging was fine, he'd happily let his human go into another animal on the ground, but any time he jumped into a bird there was a fear that Jon would someday just fly away. Just like his Dragon did.

"I'm coming back, boy." Jon promised, like every time before, ruffling his wolf's head again reassuringly. "I'm just going for a little fly and then I'll be right back."

Ghost just whined again, worriedly. 

"Hey, you'll keep me grounded, yeah?" 

His assurances were cut into by territorial barking from above, something was flying. Looking up, Jon scanned the starlit night for the telltale silhouette of wings...there! An owl was right over them, hunting probably, and right within Jon's line of sight. 

He slipped into the animal's mind without a second thought.

There was the customary rush of senses hitting him, the need to feed, the call for a mate, and the urge to  _fly._ It was this last one that he took with all his will, stretching his wings out and just gliding for a moment before beating them hard in the wind to stay aloft. Gods but it was good to be back on the wing, up here there was nothing to fear, no need to think, even his old human concerns wandered away. Well, not all of them. Acting on reckless impulse, Jon tucked his wings away and dove downwards straight towards the snow. 

Down.

Down.

And then out! His wings spread again and he rushed back into the air, soaring above the trees again as if he hadn't nearly smacked into the ground. It was exhilarating, addicting...but it didn't come close to Dragon riding.

 _"You've completely ruined horses for me."_  

He hadn't meant to think it. In doing so the human senses returned, along with the memories, soaring over Winterfell on Rhaegal, chasing Drogon, a last moment of levity before Death greeted them. The waterfall...

_We never should've left that waterfall..._

And that did it. The owl's senses shoved him out completely and suddenly Jon was on his back, Ghost leaning over him peering worriedly into his eyes. It took him a moment to pull it all back in, when he had he rubbed his friend's snout and sat back up to offer him a broken smile. 

"I'm alright, boy."

"No you aren't." A voice whispered behind him, causing Jon to whip around. No one. Had he imagined it? "No, you didn't." 

Again from behind! Looking around again Jon found nothing. Was he finally going mad? If so about bloody time, he'd only been waiting ten years to give the Southerners an excuse to finish his slow execution. Well at least Grey Worm would be happy.

"You're not going mad." The wind whispered to him, now washing over his shoulders and through his unkempt hair. "You must come."

"...Where?"

"To the Heart Tree, three days journey time to the North." The voice told him, calm yet with the tiniest hint of urgency. "You must come, Jon. Three days."

"Why?" Gods, he was demanding things of a voice on the wind. Yes he must have gone mad...but fuck it, why not play along. "Who's calling me?"

"Because you must." The wind insisted, beating against his face to get its point across. "And as for who, I'm...almost a man."

* * *

No one was happy when Jon told them he was going. Basing acts on words spoken on the wind wasn't considered good sense, even here in the True North. But what he'd heard was real, he was sure of it. Ghost had heard it too, which shut some people up (Direwolves were considered sacred beasts here, he'd learned). However there were still those who didn't appreciate their leader up and abandoning them like this.

"It's just for a week." He'd told them with more insistence in his tone than he'd used in a decade. "Three days there, three days back. You'll be fine."

That hadn't placated them any and it hadn't been until Tormund stepped in to shut them up, saying that their clan leader had spoken, but it was clear even he wasn't happy about Jon's decision. Though for different reasons.

"You remember what day it is in three days, yes?" He'd asked, that knowing stare cutting right through any bullshit response he might have come up with. "It wouldn't do to find a knife in yeh. We've got no red witches here."

Oh he knew alright, and he understood his friend's reluctance to let him out of his sight so close to... _that_ day. Most times he was a broken mess after his one good dream, but a couple of times Tormund had had to take the knives away and forbid anyone to give Jon a blade until he was himself again. Not that Ghost would have allowed him to go through with such a thing either but it helped to have more than just paws to stop his human from doing something rash.

But that was why the White Wolf was going with him. At least that way there was someone keeping Jon's stupidity in check. 

And so, with much grumbling from his people and a worried shoulder pat from Tormund, Jon had ventured into the white wastes.

Two-and-a-half days later found him trekking up a snowy slope, Ghost just ahead at the peak, wondering if he wasn't just doing this to find a nice secluded spot to die. He wouldn't put it past himself to try it, Gods knew he deserved it after what he did. But that was why he'd given all his knives and blades to his people before leaving. It made hunting difficult but that was where having a Direwolf companion came in handy.

And even then Jon couldn't quite work out why he'd been told to come here. The Heart Tree at Whitetree had always sufficed when he wanted to chat before. And he had never called him the way he'd done like that before, usually he just warged into Ghost and lead him back South for a few minutes.

But not this time. What was he up to?

Jon expected he would find out when he came over the snowy rise to see his destination...and what a sight it was. The Weirwood Tree was massive. It even outdid the Tree in Winterfell's Godswood that he could remember, in size anyway. The grandeur of it was somewhat lost though due to one thing: This tree was clearly dead. The white bark was turning grey and the red leaves that sprouted on the branches were missing, leaving a hollowed out shade of what it must have been in life.

Why he wanted to talk here Jon didn't know, but he wouldn't find out sitting around here thinking about it. Therefore he made his way down the opposite side of the slope and up the next one towards the massive husk. 

"Well, I'm here." He called out, "What now?"

The answer didn't come in words but rather the wind itself, picking up around him and ushering him on toward an opening in the rock that the Tree stood upon. Shrugging in his head, Jon just followed the hint and stepped inside. There was barely any light to be had so he had to make do with his hands, feeling his way along, watching his step over the mass of roots weaving in and out of the walls and floor. Gods what a thing this Tree must have been when it lived. 

Slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom and Jon began stepping over the outcrops with ease until he came to an opening. There was a tiny patch of light which he saw shone on the centre of the chamber where all the roots of the tree seemed to meet. There was a hole, and in that hole...

 _Poor bugger._ Jon caught himself thinking as he stared at the skeleton within. He didn't want to think how this one might have gone but, going by what little was left of his clothing he must have died before the Wall fell.  _What was he doing here?_

A mournful whimper from Ghost had him turning back around, his companion was hunched over another set of bones and looked for all the world as if he'd just stumbled upon the answer to a question he hadn't really wanted answered. Another sniff later and his whimpers turned into a sad howl, if he were human he'd be crying.

"What's wrong, boy?" Jon asked, making his way over to his friend's side and kneeling beside him, what had Ghost found to make him so sad?

And then he saw. The bones Ghost had found were canine...and huge. Not nearly big as he was now, but these were still larger than the average wolf. And going by his wolf's reaction, there was only one wolf this could have been.

"Summer..." So this was where he'd fallen...and it hadn't been quick. Closer inspection showed that only half of his body was here, he'd been torn apart. 

Cold fury rose in Jon then, and for a split second he wished the Night King were here so he could pay that monster back for this. But it fled as soon as it came, there was no point wishing for such things and even if he did what good would it do? He'd be torn apart by a horde of Wights before he could get in range.

But if Summer was here...that meant... 

"This is where it happened." The voice he'd been waiting to hear confirmed his thoughts, though he barely moved an inch. "This is where Jojen, Summer, Brynden, Leaf and Hodor all died. All so I could become the Three-Eyed-Raven."

Funny, that almost sounded like regret. Jon didn't think his host capable of that level of emotion anymore. Still it would be rude to start like that so he just turned around to face the figure who now stood within the roots which parted like waves at his coming. 

"Hello Bran."

"Hello Jon." Bran said back, barely a hint of feeling in his words or face. He didn't look any different since the last time they had seen each other in the flesh, a trick of the Old Magic within Wierwood Trees. He looked the same because Jon's last memory of him was on the pier when he was exiled, saying his final farewell to his family. The only difference of course was that he was standing.

This didn't bother Jon all that much, they'd been talking like this for years now. It kept him aware of how things were in the South, and through these talks he'd probably learned more about what happened to Bran up here and how he became the Three-Eyed-Raven than anyone else living. He'd also expanded on his warging abilities with his brother's help, but that couldn't be why they were meeting here in secret.

Thus, he skipped over the pleasant small talk and jumped right in. "What's going on? Has something happened?"

"Something is always happening everywhere." Bran replied unhelpfully, though there was a hint of a droll tone that sounded reminiscent of Tyrion Lannister. Honestly, sometimes Jon wondered if he put on that mysterious act because he enjoyed the looks people gave him. He'd spent way too much time in the Deep South. 

"But I didn't call you here for that." He assured, his eyes briefly flitting over the place that had changed him so before returning them to Jon. "It's been ten years. Spring is here."

"Aye, I thought it was a touch warmer these days." Jon agreed, a deprecating smile pulling at his face for a moment. He barely kept track of the seasons, it was always Winter all the time up here.

His response however drew an almost curious look from Bran if his slight head tilt was anything to go by. "Did you, really? The snows have not melted, the ice remains frozen."

"Well the Crows called it the Land of Always Winter for a reason." Jon pointed out, unsure where this was going.

"Not always." His little brother replied, his eyes tipping upwards and for a moment Jon just knew his mind was travelling elsewhere, his greensight showing him something only he could see. And then he was back again. "I remember the Arrow Head. I remember watching your party venture there, I remember the Night King. I remember watching Viserion fall."

"...Aye." Jon muttered after a moment, this time unable to pull up any sort of levity, he'd visited that day quite a few times himself.

"And I remember that, long before the First Night, it was green."

"...What?"

"It was green." Bran repeated, unmoved by Jon's baffled question. "There was grass everywhere and water, the Children of the Forest made their home there...and it's where they made the first Night King."

"We killed the Night King, Bran." Jon reminded him, unsure as to where this was going. "Arya killed him, you were there. Winter has ended."

"Yes, Arya killed the Night King." He agreed with a nod, his blue Tully eyes suddenly fixing on Jon's dark ones. "And yet Spring has not come to this land." 

That declaration suddenly sent a chill up Jon's back that had nothing to do with the cold air blowing in from the outside, a familiar creeping horror that he hadn't felt in ten years. "What are you saying, Bran?"

Let him be wrong. Let Bran be implying something else, anything else but  _that._ It couldn't have been for nothing!

"I'm saying." The King of the South replied, a touch of true severity in his tone as he pinned the Warg King with those ancient eyes of his. "That your nightmares are not just nightmares. They are truth. The Night King isn't dead, Jon. We failed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. The Long Night Part III...is not coming to cinemas. Read the tags.
> 
> Some might notice the text that begins this chapter as being uplifted and updated from Ned Stark's Tower of Joy dream. That was deliberate. Because I am that unimaginative.
> 
> Next chapter, another round of Brandon Stark Explains It All. It's all set up right now, but what is Game of Thrones without literally YEARS of set up?


	2. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran tells Jon just how badly they screwed up, the plan to hopefully fix it, and the god whose meddling put them in this position to begin with.

** Bran **

"...What?" 

Bran didn't blame his cousin for his reaction, he would have done the same before his change, but the truth was the truth. "I have seen it Jon, felt his power begin to stir again in his bastion beyond the North. It might take hundreds of years to regain his strength, thousands maybe, but he will return. And the Wall is broken."

"But...but that can't be!" Jon finally yelled, pacing up and down Brynden's chamber like a caged animal, fear and denial clouding his features. Understandable, he'd just been told everything he did ten years ago had amounted to nothing. "We fought him! We beat him! It was supposed to be over!" 

Presently he stopped, panicked dark eyes fixing on Bran's placid blue ones, desperate for it not to be true. "Is there any chance you saw it wrong?"

"None." His one worded answer sent Jon off again, terrified whispering slipping from his lips now and Ghost whining at his master in concern. But Bran remained unmoved. "I admit to hoping it was false as well when I first felt the stirrings...but delving into past battles with the White Walkers dissuaded me of it."

"How?" Jon demanded furiously, not stopping his pacing and barely looking at him, "How did they do it?!"

"The answer lies in their origins." Their many discussions over the years had covered what he had learned of the War of Children & Men during the Dawn Age, how the First Men had come to Westeros and began a systematic destruction of the forests. The Children of the Forest had risen against them, using all manner of magic from warging into beasts to destroying the Arm of Dorne to stop their advance, but it hadn't been enough. Eventually they captured a man and turned him into the Night King, the first White Walker, and set him loose on the First Men. What they couldn't have expected though was for their own weapon to turn on them and start killing all living things, not just the First Men invaders.

Eventually it took an alliance of both Children and Men to defeat them, the Pact of Earth and Water. And so a thousand and one stories were told and songs sung of the War for the Dawn. Of the Last Hero and his journey through the cold, of the tragic love of Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa...and of course, Jon's least favourite, the Prophecy of the Prince that was Promised. 

"The Children were desperate when they created him." Bran presently explained, not bothering to cover the past again. "They didn't just infuse him with his eternal mission to punish all life, there were safeguards put in place to ensure he carried it out."

"Safeguards?" Jon parroted.

"In case the First Men found a way to kill him." He readily expounded. "They had to be sure the mission would be fulfilled. So they placed a curse on the Night King: Should he ever fall another of his blood would take up the mantle."

It was an insidious plan and a brilliant one at the same time. Even if the First Men brought down one Night King another would have risen within their own ranks and immediately sewn chaos, cutting them down from within and adding their corpses to his Wight army. 

"So...we've doomed some poor soul to become a monster?"

Bran recognised the guilt on his cousin's face, had he not been so foolish long ago he would have felt the same way too, but that was another life. Besides, he had far worse news to deliver. "No, Jon. I know exactly who the third Night King is."

"Third?"

"The first one fell at the end of the War for the Dawn, defeated by his grandson whose father had married a Child of the Forest to tie their factions together in perpetuity." Were he still a normal man, he would have sighed at the horrible truth he was about to deliver but he had to tell him. He had to understand. "That man's name was Brandon. It is as it sounds."

He watched as the realisation hit Jon's mind, the Knower of Nothing no longer it didn't take him long to draw the correct conclusion and yet still he tried to deny it. "It can't have been..."

"In life he was Brandon, Builder of the Great Holdfast, Breaker of Storms, Tender to the Garden, Student of the Clever, the Son of Earth and Water...and founder of House Stark."

It was an interesting thing to watch a man's whole world tumble in on itself. Not fun by any means, he'd taken no joy in watching Jon's life implode after Samwell Tarly told him the truth in a moment of grief-struck emotion, but still it was amazing to watch all the intricate little shifts a person goes through as they take in new information that doesn't add up with all that they believed in for so long. Once again, those shifting expressions crossed over Jon Snow's face: shock, denial, anger, more denial, consideration...and finally half resignation. Bran knew the question before Jon asked it.

"You...you're saying the man Arya killed...was one of the pack?" 

"Yes." He answered simply. "And from the pack, another will rise."

He left it like that for Jon to work out. Not that there were many options to choose from, due to his own condition and Sansa's years of torment House Stark only consisted of himself and his sisters. And of the three of them, only two had been close to the Night King when he died. Jon would work it out, he'd been given all the pieces to do so.

And going by the horror that was painting itself over his face, he just did. "No...not her..."

"Yes, Jon. Her."

"But she sailed away, she went West!"

"And Brandon cut off half the North from the other half with the Wall." Bran countered, his memories of the man who would become the Second King filling his mind's eye. "Had he just been a mere man, the Night King would have risen again immediately, but Brandon was a son of the Children of the Forest as much as the First Men. He fought the curse for as long as he was able, venturing deep into the North where no one could find him...save for his twelve companions, his horse, and his faithful Direwolf."

As a child Bran had loved the story of the Last Hero. As the Three-Eyed Raven, he had seen just what it meant to be one, what his namesake had sacrificed to protect the Realms of Men.

"She's doing the same." He went on to say. "Maybe not consciously but some part of her knows the curse is already awake inside of her, urging her to submit...but Arya has never been one to give up without a fight."

"Gods be good, we're lucky for that." Jon commented, a small unwilling smile taking his face for a moment, before dying down again. "How long does she have left?"

"I don't know." He really didn't, Arya had been fighting the urge to return to Westeros for a decade now, her training as a Faceless Man making her all the more susceptible to suggestion but she had held out. "All it will take is one moment of weakness or hesitation, or maybe she'll look back East just a moment too long. When that happens, the Night Queen will rise."

"So is that why you're here?" Jon asked, a bitter tone filling his lungs, "You want me to find Arya and kill her before it happens? Makes sense I suppose. A man who's killed one Queen can kill another, is that it?"

And understandable question, considering the secrecy of their meeting and his actions in regards to the last Long Night and the Queen who saved them, but fortunately that was not the reason. "If I wanted Arya dead I wouldn't send you, Jon. Not because you couldn't do it but because, as you are, killing Arya would just pass the curse on to you."

"Wouldn't that have happened anyway?" 

"Not if you had been what you were supposed to be." He had confused him, he could see by the way Jon was fixing him with that look. Not that he could be blamed for it, there had never been a chance to fully explain Jon's role in the Great War. Samwell's interference, however well intended, certainly hadn't helped. But now he had to know, it was the only chance they had. "Jon, do you remember Hardhome?"

There was the ghost of a haunting memory, the first time Jon and the Night King had seen each other. The first time both had seen what the other was capable of. "He was cautious of you, you know."

More disbelief. "Hard to believe a creature who can raise the dead had anything to worry about me." 

"It is when the person he's facing is the one who can kill him for good." 

That got a reaction from him, his cousin disbelief turning into incredulity. But truth was truth. "Jon you were the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, two great lines that had never met nor ever should have. You should never have happened...and yet you did."

A snort was all Jon replied with, reminding him of the numerous time's he had watched his cousin state as such himself this past decade. Nevertheless it was what it was, and besides that wasn't the point. "The Night King could feel it from the moment he saw you. The culmination of eight thousand years of work, all to put you and him together so that he could finally be killed. Why else do you think he showed off his power to you as you escaped?"

"To intimidate me." Jon replied immediately, "To show me that I was up against a force of nature. You can't fight against nature."

"No, you can't." He agreed with a slight nod, "But when has nature ever had to prove itself to anyone?" That silenced his cousin, because it was true. Nature didn't prove itself, it just did its work and carried on, having to show someone what they were up against was the act of men and beasts. "He feared you then, Jon, because he saw you for what you were: The Son of Ice and Fire.

"However," Bran went on, knowing this bit would be the hardest for him to understand and accept, "by the time you and he faced each other again he barely gave you a second glance. What do you think happened between those two meetings that would have given him cause to relax?"

It didn't take too long for Jon to come to the answer, his shoulders sagging as the truth of it reached him, a hand unconsciously reaching up and rubbing against his chest. "The mutiny."

"Yes." No point in being gentle with it now, Jon had to know. "But it's not that you died that was the problem Jon. It was the manner of your return."

"'The manner of my-'" Jon cut his spurning statement off before it got vicious, but it didn't stop him from stating the obvious. "Bran, I was dead!"

"And if you had been brought to the Heart Tree outside of Castle Black, Brynden and I could have resurrected you ourselves." That shut him up. Good, he would need to be listening for this bit. "You met Beric Dondarrion, Jon, a man resurrected as you were six times. Can you tell me true that he was the same man who died to the Mountain in the Riverlands?"

It was an unfair question, he knew that, Jon had never met Lord Dondarrion before Father sent him to bring Gregor Clegane to justice. He had though, he'd watched the man lose piece after piece of himself as Thoros of Myr continuously brought him back from the abyss. By the end, the Lightning Lord couldn't even remember the face of his betrothed. And he was just a Lord, Jon was descended from the lines of not one but  _two_ Royal families, the cost to bring him back had been significantly more.

At the very least Jon seemed to understand the comparison between him and Beric. "So, I came back wrong as well?"

No point in lying. "Yes."

"How?"

"Two things contributed to it. The first is that R'hllor, or the Lord of Light as you knew Him, demands a price for any sort of boon He grants His followers." A practise that, in words, sounded alright but when the price is burning people the buyer holds dear for that boon even Bran in his emotionless state found himself taking...issue. But moving on. "The second contribution was from the ignorance of Melisandre: she sought to bring back Jon Snow but all she knew of you was that you were the son of Eddard Stark, a child of the North. And that's exactly what she got."

"And that was bad?"

"Considering the whole point was for you to be a child of Ice  _and_ Fire, yes." Droll it may be but the point had to be made, he needed Jon to understand that. "A child of the North couldn't defeat the Night King, a child of Valyria couldn't destroy the Night King. We  _needed_ a child of both, and R'hllor took that from us!"

He had surprised his cousin with what amounted to an emotional outburst, frankly he had surprised himself with his reaction. But then, the Old God's weren't happy either, vision upon vision had been assaulting him for months now of what was to come: Chaos, madness, stupidity and death...and all the while the true threat was left forgotten, just like before. It was maddening and yet he couldn't say a word, so it was somewhat relieving to let out his frustrations to the only other person in the world who could understand it.

Even so, Jon seemed resigned to their situation. "Even if you say that, Bran, it's already happened. What's done is done."

"Yes, the past is written, the ink is dry. Brynden told me that once and everything that makes me the Three-Eyed Raven tells me the same." 

"So why bother telling me this?" Jon asked, now with frustration, clearly he'd expected more than to be told that they were all doomed to die anyway.

There was a pause between them for a moment, not because Bran didn't have an answer but because he needed to say it as a man who almost didn't exist anymore. For a moment he dug through all his memories, all those facts and moments and truths and lies and lives and deaths, fishing for the one life in millions that he needed to be...and then a determined glare shot over his face. "Because the part of me that is Brandon Stark refuses to accept it."

He could have punched Jon in the stomach and got less of a stare than the one his cousin was sending his way now. Once again he pulled back to choose his next words carefully, everything he'd been planning and considering from the moment Tyrion Lannister put the crown on his head now depended on what he said next. If he couldn't convince Jon in the next few moments then he would have to find some way to hold against his sister when she came all by himself.

Jon however found his voice first. "What are you saying, Bran?"

"I'm saying," he finally replied, purpose unlike anything he'd felt since his foolish actions in this very chamber so long ago filling his veins "that though the past may have been written, the ink takes time to dry."

"...I don't understand."

"Not yet," Bran conceded to Jon's confusion with a tiny nod, "but you will. Now listen and learn, we don't have much time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I know what some of you are thinking: 'What the literal bleeding fuck, man?! Arya's the next Night King?! Brandon the Builder was the one before that?! Have you done any research?! It was Brandon who took a Child of the Forest to wife! UNSUBSCRIBE!'
> 
> And I say, yes, that is what just happened. Why? 'Because fuck D&D' would be the unimaginative response, and honestly I'm fine with Arya killing the Night King and sailing off to see the world. But I'm the writer so I need a reason to send Jon back in time other than 'Argh! Dany ded now! Repent, Jon Snow!' It's dull is all I'm saying and I can't see the Old Gods sending him back because the Ship sank.
> 
> Second, the story goes that Brandon the Builder married a Child of the Forest. Emphasis on 'the story goes.' Stories can get muddled over time. Heroes and villains can get mixed up, tragic loss of life can be remembered as grand moments of heroism. And a man who was forced to slay his own grandfather to bring peace to the world can turn into the very thing he fought to destroy.


	3. Now it Ends...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns things. The Red God's meddling, the state of the wheel, and other lovely topics.
> 
> The decision is made.

**Jon**

It was some hours later that found him wondering just what sort of mad life he'd been crafted to live. The son of a would-be Dragonlord and a She-Wolf of the North, inheritor of an ancient curse from the latter along with such a gift for skinchanging that the Free Folk had started calling him 'Warg King' when they thought he wasn't listening, and apparently destined to beat back the White Walkers once and for all; all that in itself was something he'd say came from a song if he hadn't lived most of it.

But this? This one was on a mental scale he wasn't equipped to fathom.

Their conversation had been deep, Bran revealing truths with regards to Stannis Baratheon's so-called 'Lord of Light.' Apparently he was no such thing: R'hllor was a god who thrived off of chaos in any and all forms; men, women, animals, monsters, myths, it didn't matter. So long as there was chaos, and he had his zealot priests to carry out what they thought was his will, R'hllor was content. That was why, Bran had explained, he'd been so keen to stop the Long Night.

No matter what there was to be said about the White Walkers, there was a certain twisted sense of order to be found in a land without life and that was something the Chaos god could not abide. So he took over matters in Westeros, first by sending Melisandre to recruit Stannis and spread some of his typical madness in the War of Five Kings and then sending her to the Wall. Her purpose was to meet the true enemy with whatever weapon she could find there...and there she found a son of King's Blood. Jon Snow. 

R'hllor had sensed the touch of divine intervention in Jon and had coveted that power for himself, all to gift it to another of  _his_ choosing. He got what he wanted; Jon died and was brought back but as a mere man with only the slightest embers of what he had once been left to him by the greedy deity. 

"And Dany?" Jon had asked, he'd needed to know. "What were R'hllor's plans regarding her?"

There had been true regret in Bran's eyes as he explained. "She was his agent, the Bride of Fire. Not knowingly, I promise, but through her he gained a foothold in Westeros. Cersei had already destroyed the Great Sept in Kings Landing which weakened the Seven whilst the Night King all but finished the Old Gods. There are more Red Priests in Westeros now than ever before, spreading their ignorant words to anyone who will listen."

That hit hard, Jon had needed a moment to himself after that in order to contain the pure anger at what he had learned.

_"zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor"_

_A Dragon is not a slave._

Her words, still clear as the day he'd heard her say it, ran through his mind again. That was the bedrock of her whole campaign, to never be chained down, never be used or enslaved by anyone or anything...and all this time R'hllor had been using her to his own ends. 

 _And the moment he was done with her...I was there._ Gods they'd all been played. 

After that Bran expanded on what he meant by the Ink not having dried yet. According to him it took time before the acts of the past were set in stone, citing events during his training with the previous Three-Eyed Raven where he had effected the past in tiny ways. The primary example he'd used was when he'd watched their father's skirmish with Ser Arthur Dayne and the remnants of the Mad King's Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy, when it was over Bran had called out to him and Ned Stark had heard him. Now, every time Bran watched that moment in history, Ned Stark always looked back for a voice he heard on the wind.

"What I'm suggesting is...a bit more than that though." He'd told Jon, before laying out his plan. Using every last bit of strength and magic left to him and the Wierwoods, he would send Jon back to a moment before his death with the intentions of doing whatever was necessary to end Brandon the Builder's Long Night. "And I do mean 'whatever is necessary.' If you can make allies where you didn't before, do it. If you can remove a threat to your life before it manifests, remove it."

Jon didn't need to wonder what he was suggesting there, and it did spark off some thought as to what he could have done differently had he just been a tiny bit smarter about things. Gods the green boy he'd been back then, so sure he knew all he needed to know about the world.

_"You know nothing, Jon Snow."_

Those words, at one point so mocking now his mantra, had carried more wisdom than his eighteen-year-old self could have ever understood. What a different man he might have been if he'd never let himself be so certain of things back then, if he'd always tried to learn something new like he did now...it was an enticing offer, made sweeter by Bran's confirming that all the things he'd learned would come back with him. "You may even be able to save a life or two that you couldn't before." 

Neither needed to confirm that they were thinking about Rickon, both had talked about how they'd failed their youngest brother. If Bran sought redemption for that failing on his part, Jon would do what he could to make it a reality. This of course lead to him asking why he was going and not Bran himself. Of course, the Broken King had had an answer ready for that. "A cripple can't do much, Jon. Besides it would be too dangerous to send me back with all my abilities, there can only ever be one Three-Eyed Raven."

Of course there was the factor that wherever he was sent back to Jon couldn't move around much either, his vows to the Night's Watch held him to Castle Black. That itself wasn't much of a big deal, but if he did desert the first Southern Lord he met on the road would take his head. No, if he was going to find allies he would have to find them beyond the Wall.

 _Mance Rayder._ If he could save his life, maybe more of the Free Folk could be saved as well. Hiding him from Stannis and Melisandre would be the hardest part of it but if he could do it...

A whisp of white shot passed his gaze, causing him to blink and stare at his wolf. Ghost had been his usual silent self all the way through the discussion, the flicking of his one good ear every now and then the only indication that he was paying attention to their words. And as Jon looked at his friend he couldn't help a small stab of sadness cut through his veins. By one mean or another, the whole of Ghost's pack had been cut down, from Lady to Shaggydog, until only he and Nymeria remained...but she didn't really count as pack anymore seeing as she had stayed in the South. Ten years of searching had also proved that there were no Direwolves left north of the Wall either, Ghost was the last of his kind. That was wrong.

Saving the Pack, man and beast both, suddenly became another reason to go through with this mad scheme. Lady was likely beyond his reach but, if he went back far enough, Summer and Shaggy at least might be saved. 

"Have you decided then?" Bran asked, cutting into his thoughts.

Was there ever a chance for refusal? He was offering Jon everything he ever wanted on a silver platter, a chance to do better, to  _be_ better, than he had before. What other answer could he give his brother but 'Yes?' But he still needed to know something first.

"What about the Wheel? We'd be bringing that back too."

"The Wheel never broke." Came the damning response. "We just gave it a new coat, an electoral monarchy which the Lords and Ladies of the Realm will squabble and fight and kill each other over the moment my body is interred in the Crypts."

So it really had all been for nothing, on some level he'd been hoping that at least had been achieved but even Dany's true vision for the world hadn't been met either. All the betrayals, the backstabbing, the deaths...the  _Bells..._ it had all meant nothing. 

"And the North?"

"They will face the same problem." Why had he known that was what he was going to say? Heedless, Bran went on. "Sansa rules well, very well, the best of our father and mother...but she is unmarried and will remain so, without issue. Without an heir, without the Starks, the Northern Lords will turn on each other as well."

"The War of Five Kings all over again." 

"Closer to fifty, in the South at least, going by the whispers at Court."

Gods,  _fifty_ different claimants? Westeros had barely survived five would-be kings and the Clash of the Three Queens as the bards called it nearly finished the job. And now that was the future Bran saw for their country? Why had he ever accepted the Crown if that was what awaited them? But then again, maybe it didn't matter. Just thinking about all the innocent lives lost over something so trivial was all Jon needed to know. It called back words from another life, a conversation with a Lord who had seen the abyss much as he had and come to his own conclusion about what to do with himself now.

_"We're soldiers...you and I won't find much joy while we're here, but we can keep others alive. We can defend those who can't defend themselves..."_

"...I am the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men." Maybe he didn't need to understand why Bran was coming to him now...maybe that was enough...and in that instant he realised his decision had already been made. His gaze returned to his brother and he offered a small nod. "Alright. I'm in."

Something close to satisfaction crossed through Bran's eyes for a moment, coupled with the tiniest of smiles, before returning to severity. "Then understand this, Jon. There is nothing more dangerous than what we are about to attempt, the Past was never meant to meet the Future. The Ink may not yet be dry, but once you arrive your very presence will force it to speed up the process. Therefore we-"

"We can only do this once." Jon finished, he'd suspected as much. "Then I'd better make the most of it."

Flippant he may have been, but Bran seemed to accept it as he started to retreat back into the roots of the Weirwood Tree until his body vanished. This was much the way that their conversations usually ended, although the roots themselves usually returned to their original place, this time they stayed where they were as if inviting Jon to follow Bran inside. Seeing no other option, Jon took a couple of steps forward.

A worried whine behind him had him turning back to his wolf. Ghost was watching him, clearly unsure if this was the right thing to do, scared that he wouldn't see his human ever again. And just like that they were back at Winterfell, Ghost only half his size and Jon setting forth from his home for what he had known in his veins would be the last time. That had been the closest either had come to losing one another but Jon was adamant that his friend never set foot in the South, he was a creature of the North and that was where he would always belong. Now he knew they both felt that same precipice once again...and unlike last time there was no chance of him ever returning.

"Ghost..." This had to be the right choice. Not one he made to save his pack, not to endanger anyone's claim to some throne of broken swords, not for his sisters or even himself, it had to be right for them and only them. So he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let himself just stop thinking for moment...and then out it came.

"...To me."

Hearing that old command, Ghost perked up and padded over to him, nudging his human with his nose affectionately. They would do this together, as they always should. Decision made, they stepped into the mass of roots. 

The moment they did so it felt as if they had entered another world, one of darkness and damp, ancient beyond record. The roots themselves seemed to twist into a sort of passage that lead downwards, deep into the earth beneath. With no other option, Jon made his way down, deep into the darkness, eventually having to leave it to Ghost's heightened senses to lead them as it turned pitch black.

Holding onto his fur, Jon let Ghost tug him along, avoiding anything that might trip him up, going further and further...until at last Ghost came to a stop, letting out a small huff and shaking his hand off. 

"What is it, boy?" Ghost just nudged him along until his hand came into contact with another set of roots that ran like the arm of a chair. Curious, Jon fumbled in the darkness until his right hand found another mass of roots also running like an arm. Was this what Bran had been leading him to? A chair? Hard to believe but then he'd just walked inside a hole that was bigger on the inside so who was he to judge? Seeing quite literally nothing else to work with, Jon shrugged and turned to seat himself.

It only occurred to him then that he hadn't checked if this thing had a base. It did so he was spared that humiliation, but it was still more of a dip than he was used to and he was all but wrapped up in the rather uncomfortable chair. And then he really was. The roots began shifting the moment his ass touched them, wriggling, writhing...binding. 

"Bran?" 

Nothing.

"Bran what's happening?!"

Still nothing as the roots took hold of his arms, gripped his legs and one even wrapped itself around his neck, holding him down as if he were some prisoner...maybe he was. Had Bran betrayed him? Was this the last act of vengeance on the part of the Old Gods for his failure? Then why? Why do it? Why give him hope?

"Calm, Jon." Bran's voice echoed around him, whispering through his ears and yet booming deep in the dark. "This will go faster if you close your eyes."

"What will?"

"The beginning." He unhelpfully explained, and in that moment Jon realised it was the roots themselves that were speaking, all of them quivering around him and mimicking his brother's voice through some strange magic. "You will have to trust us Jon Snow, this is the only chance we have."

What choice did he have? He was strapped down on the basis that he was about to be thrown back in time by means he couldn't fathom in the hopes of somehow getting it right this time. There wasn't exactly a book he could ask Sam to find on that. But it was all he had, and so he let out a sigh and tried to relax, shutting his eyes against the darkness. The moment he did the wriggling stopped, in fact it almost felt as if they too had vanished when he closed his eyes. 

"Bran?"

His call was met with the lightest touch of something on his brow...fingers? They didn't feel quite like fingers of a young man, not fleshy and smooth but boney and rigid...either way he had no choice but to let those digits touch him and hope that he wasn't about to die. 

"One final word of caution." Bran's voice again buzzed in his ear. "The body we are returning you too is your whole self, who you were meant to be...but you have lived these many years without it and so have forgotten how it feels. Do not fear it, do not run from it. Accept it and know that we sing your song still."

His whole self? Right, the part R'hllor took from him when he was resurrected...sounded like he was in for a surprise when Jon woke up in the past. Strangely enough he felt excited about that prospect. "I'll be ready for it."

"No you won't."

He was this close to saying something snappy at that but he held off, his lacking knowledge when it came to the mysteries of prophecy and divine intervention making itself known. "Anything else?"

"Just some advice." The fingers slipped down his brow, cracking apart and tracing down his cheeks until they rested between his eyes and ears. "You will be returning to the body of a boy...but it will take a man to do what needs to be done. A leader, not a soldier. 

"Kill the boy, Jon Snow." Bran's voice suddenly echoed with the aged knowledge of a long lost uncle, the grip on his face almost bruising. "Winter is upon us once more. Kill the boy and let the man be born."

With those words, Jon's world became pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off, Free Folks! 
> 
> Been seeing a lot of Bran hate of late. Not here, per say though I'm waiting for someone to point out he's clearly evil. Did it ever occur to anyone that he's the only one left due to everyone else's inability to get shit done? Also half those lords and ladies at the end hated the other half, one quite literally threatening to murder the other. Honestly, I'd pick the emotionally dead one in that situation.
> 
> Also, fuck R'hllor! I'm supposed to believe that a god that gets off on burning children and birthing evil shadow babies is in any way a force for the cause of the Living? Nah. Whether through arrogance or a desire to replace the Old Gods and the Seven as the one and only faith in Westeros, he screwed it all up. The Song of Ice & Fire was Jon's and Jon's alone. Sorry to any Dany fans out there who would say it's both of them, it's not. Dany is pure fire but Jon is not pure ice. He's both...until, as I said, R'hllor fucked up his resurrection and left a part of him out when he came back.
> 
> Rant over, this will be a Jonerys fic...eventually. The man has some serious issues to work out first, that nightmare from the Prologue is not the only one we'll be seeing going forward.


	4. ...and Now it Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's kick it off with a time-honoured classic trope of returning to the past: Mass confusion!  
> And just a side note: as with everything in Planetos, time-travel stings like the illegitimate offspring of a scorpion and a wasp.
> 
> Also Tormund's here. Because the world is always a bit brighter with him around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In unrelated news I have my first Spanish reviewer. Never had one of those before. Cheers, Leinadsarertnoc.

** 300 AC **

** Tormund **

Something was different, he could feel it the moment they broke camp and started the next leg of the journey, he felt it when Orell shot him yet another impatient distrustful glance backwards and he felt it when Ygritte tried again to get the Baby Crow's attention. 

It had all started when said Crow suddenly shot up awake, crying out to all the forest as if he were a newborn taking his first breath. Woke up half the camp with his shout, Tormund included, words trickling out his mouth that made no sense to him or anyone else. Which was something of a victory really, Tormund knew half the languages spoken in the North, from the Giants' Old Tongue to the Ice River clans' jibberish and he'd never heard a word of what Snow had been spouting...some Southron kneeler shit, most like.

He'd been given a good belting for that, Ygritte didn't suffer fools...poor poor Orwyle...but that all came to an end when he grabbed her arm and had her beneath him with a knife at her throat faster than she could skin a rabbit. That had gotten Orell's back up, which got some fool over on the other side of the camp's back up and before he knew it Snow had had as many knives as there were backs to be up pointed at his. 

Not that they'd been needed. Ygritte had Snow on his back again with her own knife out and at his throat a moment later, but even then he'd still wriggled like a baby seal and spouting that odd tongue. 

"Snow!" She'd shouted at him once only for him to keep at it. "Jon Snow! Start behaving or I'll be making you behave!"

That still didn't get through to him, he kept on rambling. So she'd made good on her promise and whacked his head against the ground putting him out again. 

"He's slowing us down." Orell had immediately squawked up, twittering to the camp as a whole. "Fucking Crow's trying to keep us strung up so his other Crow friends can find us easier. Why not give them what they want? Leave Snow's Crow body with a crow head on top for the other Crows to find!"

Some of them liked that idea, some didn't. Ygritte really didn't, getting right into their Warg's face in a flash. "Come anywhere near him and they'll be finding crows on you, on all of you!"

It took some real good talking to get everyone calm again after that, Tormund had had to bring out the big stories to keep half the group from skinning the other half and even then he'd needed his Bear story to keep Ygritte under control. Much ale and goat's milk later, the group had finally simmered down...but for Tormund himself who kept his eyes on Snow. He'd seen something in the boy's eyes just before he went under, something that made him shudder even now thinking of it.

Hopefully it had just been a trick of the sun, it had to be. He didn't want to think what it meant that Snow's pretty dark eyes had been burning redder than a Wierwood Tree's.

When Snow finally awoke, things got stranger. It started off normal enough, getting up, rubbing his head where he got whacked, then he turned his pretty head to him and let out a tired groan. "Gods, Tormund, the next time you switch my ale with your Milk, I'm feeding you to Ghost."

"Ghost?" There was something to latch onto and a big old grin pushed itself up Tormund's beard. "Har! You shits hear that?! He's going to feed me to his kneeler spirits! Poor boy's still out of it!"

That set off the rest of them, laughing and jeering at the Crow, but the Crow himself didn't get all moody like he should do. In fact, he didn't seem to know where he was, head flicking around every way like a startled deer before the wolves got it, eyes fixing on each one of them. Eyes that were back to normal, thank the Children, maybe it really had just been the sun. 

But then...when had he ever had his Goat's Milk?

Questions continued piling up when he took one look at Ygritte and nearly jumped out of his skin, like he really had seen a ghost, and no amount of teasing on her part seemed to pull him back. In fact as the day went on he pulled himself further and further away from her as they made the walk through these southern woods to their next stopping point.

"What's going on with the Baby Crow?" He finally asked her once they had a spare minute, but the girl didn't have anything to give him.

"He's glum." She punted him when he gave her a look, the Crow was always glum "Shut it, Tall Talker! There's glum and then there's  _that._ He doesn't talk, doesn't try to be clever when I talk about the Crows, doesn't go on about his honour. Nothing! He even forgot his steel!"

Now that did ring strange. From what Tormund had seen, Jon Snow had two great loves: His southern honour and that pretty sword with the wolf's head carving on the end. He'd jested once or twice that whilst he lusted after Ygritte it was that sword that was his real love. Neither took that well, a huffing from the boy and a punt from the girl, but when Snow took the ruddy thing to bed with him what did he expect? For him to just  _forget_ it didn't sit right at all.

Something was going on with Jon Snow, whether his Crow allegiance making itself known or something else it didn't matter, Tormund would find a way to the heart of it. And if that heart was black as crow feathers...well maybe he'd make good on that pledge to strangle the boy with his own guts, if Ygritte didn't chop his balls off first.

**Jon**

Bran was right. He hadn't been ready. 

Not for the burning in his veins as he was thrown into a younger body, not for the thundering in his ears as he came alive all at once, not for the sudden return to darkness as someone - Ygritte, he later learned - smacked his head against the earth, not for any of it. But what he certainly hadn't been ready for was all the ghosts he found himself journeying with.

These were faces he'd all but forgotten he knew, from Big Boil still moaning about the boil on his arse to Grigg the Goat...and then there was Ygritte herself. Hers was the first face he saw after Tormund's, when he still thought everything before had just been the cruelest dream yet, and all of a sudden he didn't know what to do. It had all slammed into him then, where exactly he was and what he was doing: The Free Folk were raiding south of the Wall before hitting Castle Black, and he was here to spy on them. After a moment of looking around he also knew where they were...well not exactly, but the lacking of snow gave enough away. The South. For the first time in years he was back in the land of kneelers and lies.

And he was thin!

Not that he'd gone to slough after his exile, but Jon had put on a few pounds. All gone now. No fat, no blubber to insulate against the cold, nothing! How in all the Hells did this body survive in those snows?

They'd stopped for a bite - meaning Ygritte had shot a deer and then they bit into that - around a small pool, Queenscrown rising up on an island in the centre, and Jon now got a chance to look at his face. So young, so... _pretty._ No scars, no wear in the brow, nothing. As if his whole life had never happened. And he was hot!

His body wasn't sweating, he wasn't short of breath, and his vision wasn't hazy...but Jon couldn't helping feeling overheated. Was it the clothes? He removed the outer sheepskin cloak for a moment to see if that changed anything...no it wasn't that. It went deeper, under the skin. He could probably go without that outer layer until he was at the Wall. 

_The Wall..._ Gods, how was he going to convince the Crows not to kill the Free Folk on sight and vice versa? Alliser Thorne at the very least would call him a Wildling lover whilst Tormund would probably toss him off of the Wall itself. It was one thing to consider what needed doing and another to implement it. He'd been back for half a day and all he'd done was the same as last time.

Old frustrations suddenly began to rise as he tried to think a way out of this and all the skulls he'd have to crack together on both sides of the Wall for them to have even a slight chance at getting it right this time. He'd have to get to Mance, but to get to Mance he'd have to betray the Free Folk again. An option Jon found himself liking a loss less than he probably had the first time round but he'd have to do it, he had to go back to the Crows. Which would break Ygritte's heart.

_"She loved you...all she talked about was killing you. That's how I know."_

Hells but the Gods had a sick sense of humour, didn't they? 

"Aww, now what did the poor water do to make that face on ya, Jon Snow?" Speak of the devil. Ygritte's face suddenly appeared in the water beside his own reflection smirking down at him with that short look in her eye, the one that had him wondering if she was going to flay him or fuck him. Before he could think up a clever retort or move away she was down by his side, all but nestling into his side, their reflections taking on the same look. One would've mistaken them for a resting couple. 

"There, now in't that better?" She asked him, still smiling at the image the two of them made. "A man with his woman who's her man?"

"...It does." He replied sadly, wishing Bran had dropped him off somewhere else,  _anywhere_ else. 

"But yer not happy." She muttered, sounding a little fed up, shifting around so they were now face to face. "Where's that head of yers, Snow? Thinkin' 'bout the Crows again?"

"...Sort of." 

"What, sort of?" She asked back mockingly. "Ya can't be jus' 'sort of' thinkin' of somethin', y'are or y'not. That simple. Yer thinkin' bout yer Crow brothers again that yer gonna be killin' soon."

Well...there was some truth to that, Bran had said to remove any and all threats to his life as soon as possible...but then who would man the Wall? Killing Alliser Thorne wouldn't do him any good now, no matter how much pleasure he might derive from hanging that murderous shit a second time. As much as Jon hated to admit it he needed the bastard, his experience and commanding presence would hold the Crows together until he could talk to Mance and get things moving.

"Well, think on 'em if ya want." Ygritte carried on with a small shrug, still peering into his eyes with that same pointed stare. "The killin'll be quick from me, can't say the same 'bout the rest of 'em but I'll be nice for ya. An' you? How're you gonna do it?"

"Quickly, I should hope." Jon found himself replying, though Olly's quivering form as he died from the noose around his neck played out inside his mind. Would he have to do that again? 

A cawing overhead had him tipping his head up, a hawk flying over them...and immediately Jon felt the temptation to slip inside it like he had with so many other winged creatures whenever he needed to empty his head. Such a simple thing, so easy...

"Ugh." Ygritte's disgusted noise pulled him back, her eyes glaring up at the bird. "I oughta shoot the thing outta the sky. Fuckin' Orell."

_Orell?_ The desire was suddenly killed, that was  _his_ hawk? The one that... one of Jon's hands went to his face, unconsciously tracing where his old scars had once been, the digging of the bird's talons into his flesh suddenly coming back with force. Knowing his luck he'd be feeling them again really soon. 

But looking up at it gave him an idea. If done right, he might be able to get away without the Free Folk trying to gut him...so long as everyone in this party followed the same superstitions he'd become used to, that is.

** Ygritte**

When she had a spare moment, she decided, she was going to skin that fucking bird and serve it for supper. It followed them all the way back to camp, eyes tracking every move they made. Fucking Orell, he thought because she took an interest in Jon Snow that meant he could make a move now? If he'd bothered any time before she might have given him a tumble, but Jon Snow got there first which probably ticked him off more than him being a Crow. Mance was a Crow once too but you didn't hear anyone go on about him. 

All that besides, Jon Snow was good to her - not like that lickspittle Orwyle - a bit stupid maybe, but then he knew nothing. He could learn though. He  _would_ learn.

If he didn't, she'd put three arrows in him and carry on. It'd be sad but that's what it was. She wasn't a Southron maid who cried over every little thing.

Teaching Jon Snow however had come to a standstill. Since his screaming wake up call that morning he'd been acting different, like he didn't quite know where he was. Once they broke camp though he seemed to go back to normal...but once she started their usual game he didn't partake, save for a little smile, and shoved on. And that wasn't even getting into him forgetting his steel.

The oddest bit though was when they were sitting down for the next meal and she'd gotten distracted by the castle. Jon Snow had just looked at it and laughed. Not a happy laugh though, she'd heard Tormund's laughs and Mance's enough to know the difference; Jon Snow had been laughing a Mance laugh. She'd tried to push him on it but he just shoved off again and sat his arse down by the water. When she pushed him on the Crows he was mum on his yay or nay on killing them, Ygritte thought he'd try to turn her away from going after them but he just gave a short answer and that was that.

She'd have pushed for more if Orell hadn't been a fucking peeper.

_Well what of it?_ She tried to tell herself as she followed -  _followed -_ this strange new Jon Snow back to camp.  _Maybe he's come over at last. He's gonna kill the Crows and let Mance through...or maybe he thinks we're all gonna die and he wants some good times before that. Fine, that's fine._

It really was. Ygritte's life had been cold cut through with the odd fight and fuck to keep warm. Death was her friend as much as her enemy and she'd been dancing with it all her life. She could die tomorrow, they could all die today...

_But first we'll live._

They broke camp shortly after that and pushed on, now heading north. And again something about Jon Snow was different. He'd always tried to move like them before - 'tried' being the word, he was still too Southern at times - but now that she was looking, the way he was slightly hunched down as they slipped through the fields, his steps leaving near silence in their wake...he wasn't trying anymore, he  _was_ moving Free Folk style. When had he worked it out?

However he'd done it, Ygritte ignored it as they came to a crouch behind a wall. There was a house just up ahead, big one by the look of it though Jon Snow just snorted when someone said so. 'You've never even seen a castle before' she wagered he was saying in his head 'silly wildling folk, what do they know of big Southern things?'

A runner hopped over the wall to have a looksee, leaving her with this strange new Jon Snow that had even gotten kneeling behind a wall right; not hunched down on the balls of his feet but with one leg down proper whilst the other stayed bent, held up by his foot, and his whole body resting against the wall for when they had to jump over. She caught Tormund's eye then and noticed that whilst he clearly approved of Jon Snow's getting better with their ways he was just as muddled over where it came from.

Orell was still glaring at him though so she'd take that.

The only thing wrong with Jon Snow's stance was that silly long Southern steel on his hip, and going by the annoyed glances he gave it every couple of seconds he knew it too, the thing kept digging into the ground meaning the handle was pushing into his hip. With the wait for their runner, he finally had enough and undid the belt before placing the sword's sheathe against his back and redoing the belt around his chest. 

"I thought you fought with your right hand." Ygritte muttered to him, noting how the sword's handle was now over his left shoulder.

"I do." Was all he said back, a shortness in his voice that she'd never heard in him before, and that was the end of it.

The not-so-comfortable silence lasted for a few minutes more until their runner came...running, jumping back over the wall to crouch beside Tormund and Orell. "Only one old man, and eight good horses."

Frowning, Tormund turned back to Jon Snow. "What's one old man doing with eight horses?"

"He breeds them for the Crows." Jon Snow said back easily.

All alone? Out here? Ygritte could see she wasn't the only one who believed that. "How's he keep folks from stealin' 'em?"

He had an answer for that too and actually bothered to look at her when he gave it. "Ideally, the Crows'd protect him."

"Ideally?"

"When's the last time a Crow came south for anything but to peck a few more for their flock?" He had a point, most of the time she'd blocked out Mance's talks of the South, boring as shit in her opinion, but when it came to the Crows and how far they'd fallen Ygritte was an eager listener.

"Well they won't be protecting anyone today either." Orell butted in, sharp look shot, and then turned to Tormund. "He's selling horses, must be some gold in there."

"And proper steel." Giantsbane added, an eager grin lighting on his lips. Gods, men and their swords.

"He's alone, one good run and it's ours..." the warg's twittering broke off and, my oh my, he turned his eyes on Jon Snow. "Unless you have a problem with us killing men your Crow friends're supposed to protect."

_Don't rise to him._ She wanted to tell him, that was what Orell wanted. He almost got it when he prodded him for information on the manned castles along the Wall, if she hadn't stepped in there would've been one less body climbing it. But Jon Snow didn't rise...in fact he barely looked moved by the question at all save a slight narrowing of his eyes, as if he were trying not to roll them.

"The Crows'll come looking eventually." He finally replied shortly, glancing over the wall for a second before fixing his attention on Tormund. "Spread everyone out around the house, cut off retreats. The quicker we get this done, the less likely word'll get back to Castle Black."

There was utter silence in the group as they listened to their former Crow ally talk, Orell still glaring at him of course not believing a word he said the jealous cunt. But Ygritte was surprised, she'd thought she'd had him pegged, if Jon Snow was coming over entirely though... 

_Maybe we'll be seeing more castles together after all._

Shocked at his statement or not, Tormund kept a firm eye on Jon Snow. "And what if we want them in Castle Black to know? Killing Crows in their castles is hard work. Killing them in the open? That's what we do."

"You want to fight a thousand men in the open?" He shot back, not looking happy at all with Giantsbane's answer. "We'd be cut down in minutes and Mance'll have one fewer group to work with."

_Shit._  Don't ever tell Tormund Giantsbane something can't be done, he'd be liable to prove that it could be just to spite you. The man himself just held Jon Snow's unimpressed stare. "The last man who questioned my ideas, you know what happened to him?"

"I don't care." He replied. "The longer we argue, the better chance that we'll be found. Are we moving or not?"

The two held each other's eye for another tense moment, Orell twittering on about how he 'kept telling them, he's a Crow, let's gut him now' but after the last five times Ygritte just shut her ears to him and focussed on her man and the Tall Talker, bow tensing in her grip. They had a job to do, if Jon Snow slowed them down they were better off without him...but Jon Snow was her man who had saved her life on the Wall. If it came to a fight...

And then Tormund grunted something and looked away from Jon Snow, speaking to the group at large. "Spread out! All 'round the house, no escapes today."

That was that, the group did as he said and started to break up, some going one way down the wall, some going the other, whilst she, Tormund, Jon Snow and a handful more stayed where they were (Orell had been shoved away. Because fuck him). Then Tormund returned his attention to Jon Snow. "You'd better be on the mark with this, Snow."

"Does it matter if I'm not?" He asked back, not at all stirred by the threat. Actually it looked like he was fighting back a smile.

Maybe Tormund saw that too and that was why he then cracked a grin in return. "Suppose not."

_Ugh._ She'd seen this before. Honestly she sometimes wondered if half the men she knew hadn't stolen each other at one point or another. Rolling her eyes at the two idiots' little stargazing session, she thumped Jon Snow, shot Tormud a nice, firm, 'Mine,' and leapt over the wall too. There was a loud 'Har!' from behind, followed by the thudding of heavy feet on earth and soon Tormund had rushed on ahead. 

On all sides the rest of the party burst from their hiding spots and rushed towards the house too, armed with spears and knives they'd have to get in close before they could do any real damage. Not Ygritte though and she took a knee, bow coming out and arrow out of the quiver whilst her fellow ginger thundered on silently ahead. Their quarry remained oblivious, content to feed on whatever it was their old man had left out for them. Good, it would make taking them that much easier. 

Eight horses, one man, one good shot was all it would take...

"CAW!" The silence suddenly broke as a very familiar, very  _annoying_ hawk, suddenly dove out of the air straight at the horses spooking the beasts something awful. 

_What the fuck, Orell?!_ The hell had that idiot gone and done that for?! Shaking it off she just focussed on aiming, they were out now meaning they couldn't stop. But the horses' fear only grew as they drew nearer and that fucking bird continued to harass them. The more they feared the louder they got, until the old man their runner had seen came outside to see what all the noise was about and saw his home surrounded on all sides by her people.

Credit where it was due, he didn't panic. He ran for the horses, untied one of them good and fast, and kicked it into a gallop just as the Free Folk broke into a run. He must have practised this in case this ever actually happened. Smart man. Wouldn't save him though. Ygritte had her eye on him and his very exposed back, her bow pulled back, arrow ready to fly, a kinder end than just wasting away in a hut all by his lonesome. 

"CAW!" That fucking bird again! Tired of messing with the horses, it burst back into the air, rushing right in front of the old man. 

She almost let the arrow go anyway...but they needed eyes for Mance's signal.

"What happened?" Jon Snow's voice suddenly cut in to her silent rage, his own panting with exertion. She'd have made something of that if she'd been in a better mood. "We had him surrounded. How'd he get past us?"

No answer was given, Ygritte didn't have the patience right now. Instead she stalked off towards the house where the Free Folk were already reaping the spoils, some bickering over horses whilst Tormund raided the pantry - because of course he would - and nicked himself a new shortsword. Any other day she'd have joined in the spoils, but right now her blood was up and she had just the target to take it out on.

Orell was fighting with his hawk when she descended on him, a good solid fist to the face sent him careening almost straight into the tree where the horses had been tied. "THE FUCK WERE YOU DOIN'?!"

"Mrr nz!" The warg whimpered, holding his face. "Oo roke mrr fkin nz!"

_Oh don't be such a fucking baby!_ Why did everyone think when they got punched in the face their noses broke? She'd been trying to do that for years and she'd yet to succeed...but maybe she just needed more practise, so she grabbed the cowering moron and dragged him up again. "We had him! He didn't know we were even there 'till you sent your little bird to play!"

"I dnt!" He squawked out, before gathering himself and squawking again. "I didn't tell him to do that!"

"Oh so he just _magically_ decided to ruin the plan, himself?!"

"I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!" Odell yelled, both parts anger and pain, twisting in her grip. And then he shot a glare over her shoulder "Why aren't you punting him?! It was his idea!"

"What'd you do now, Snow?" Tormund's voice rumbled out of the house, his boots thudding to a halt just a ways back to her right. "Did you breathe too loudly?"

There was a snort to her left. "Who knows? I get the feeling he doesn't like me."

"Free Folk not liking a Crow? Well I've never heard the like!"

If she were a touch less absolutely livid, she would shudder at the idea that her man and that oaf seemed to have suddenly become friends...but she wasn't so Ygritte instead just rammed her fist into Orell's face again. "Your fucking bird's the one ruined his plan, ya dumb cunt!"

"It's not his fault!" The warg shouted back, finally wrenching free of her grasp. "Don't you get it?! This is what the Crow wants! We'd have gotten the old man if you hadn't listened to his Southern idea! He's going to tear us apart! He already is!"

"He's not a Crow!" 

"Just 'cos he's pretty doesn't stop him being one of them!"

"Oh, that's it!" 

Her knife was out before she finished the words, the blade shining bright. But then her arm was caught and pulled back, her glare coming around with it to lay into whatever idiot thought they could stop her gutting this little idiot. And then it fell short as she came face to face with the set grey eyes of Jon Snow.  _The fuck?!_

Tormund came between her and Orell, grabbing the warg and shoving him away before he tried to rush them - well probably just her man - spouting his usual shit. The Thunderfist had no time for that though, fixing him with a beady stare. "The Crow dies when Mance says he dies. He said nothing about you though."

"You're not serious?!" Orell barked, staring at them all in disbelief. "I'm with you! He's not! He'll gut us the first chance he gets!"

_You idiot, he's had plenty of chances!_ She would've said it herself but right now Ygritte was busy being angry with her man. The hell did he think he was doing stopping her from killing this scrawny little shit. 

But his expression never changed, shifting off of her to address everyone. "We don't have time for this. The longer we dally, the better chance the Crows'll hear what we did."

"And I like my Goat's milk, doesn't mean I always get it." Tormund said back, shoving Orell away but staying in between them. "What can we do about him now?"

Jon Snow's stare now turned despairingly on him, as if he'd been hoping for a smarter reply only to get horseshit, before glancing over to the remaining bounty by the tree. "Seven horses, easily fit two on each. We take four and ride him down, the others carry on north."

That...was a pretty good plan actually. Better than just doing nothing. Surprised or not at the good idea, though he didn't show it, Tormund eventually nodded and turned to pick out the group; He was one of course, and Jon Snow too which meant Ygritte would go along to watch his rear, and then he picked five more...

"No." Her man butted in again once he was done, not happy with the lineup for some reason. And then he shocked them all as he pointed to Orell. "We'll need him to lead us back."

"Think we can't find each other on our own, Snow?" 

"I know you can." He said back before shrugging. "But why not make it easier on us anyway?"

It rang true...but Ygritte didn't like this. Orell hadn't liked Jon Snow from the first, had been trying to out him as a Crow since Mance put them together, and had even tried to kill him - and  _her_ along with him - when they climbed the Wall. Why would he want that twittering cunt anywhere near them was beyond her.

Not so much as a problem for Tormund though and he nodded in agreement. "I like the way you think, Snow."

"Thought you might." He said back and was that a tiny little smirk on his face? Who in the hell was this man and what had he done with her moody, too Southern for his own good, knower of nothing lover? 

Jon Snow gave no answers as he turned his eyes skyward, noting the clouds coming in. "We need to get going. We'll never find his tracks once that rain hits."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so just cutting in before people flay me, I jumped over Jon's getting accustomed to his young body again because I couldn't be bothered with it. No grand reasoning or poor planning, I just didn't want to deal. Tormund's useful for stuff like that.  
> So what's going on with Orell's bird, eh? And is Jon going to desert Ygritte and Tormund again? Well kinda, there's a scene I've got in my head for when he leaves that I need to write.  
> And yes, Jon putting Longclaw on his offhand shoulder is important. You each get three guesses why.


	5. Mag Nuk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orell was right the whole time, and a wild Shaggydog appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've got a lot of responses to my prodding people to guess why Jon would put Longclaw on his offhand side rather than his forehand, spanning from 'he wields two swords now!' to one person who suggested maybe he lost his hand during his exile...I kinda like that one TBH...and all of you are wrong. Averia, you're the closest so far.  
> Keep guessing though, maybe someone will get it. Here's a hint: Issues. Jon has many. They aren't cropping up yet but they are there.
> 
> There's a scene I really wanted to write in this chapter. I hope the rest of you like it.

**Orell**

He didn't like this. Which part of it didn't he like? All of it. 

He didn't like that they were riding horses chasing one old man; he didn't like that everyone was pointing the finger at him - his bird rather - for the need of it; he didn't like that he had to come with them to ride him down; he didn't like that they were away from the rest of the group; he didn't like that it was raining.

But most of all, Orell didn't like that he had to travel with Ygritte's fucking Crow even if he was on a different horse, riding as if he was the leader of this group now. Why didn't anyone else see what he could? The Crow was taking over and they were all letting it happen! First he stole their best spearwife without anyone doing a thing about it, for some reason thinking fucking a pretty girl made him one of them, then he didn't have the decency to die on the Wall when it was weeping, and now Tormund fucking Giantsbane was letting him make up plans to raid Southerners never mind that he was a Southerner himself, a Crow! 

For years Orell had backed Mance, his eyes watching from the skies saving the man's life more than any blade, but did he get rewarded for it? No, of course not. 'Cos he wasn't a fighter, just had his hawk do it all, 'cos he wasn't some big clan chief who'd stolen his way to the top, 'cos he wasn't  _pretty._ And then in comes Jon  _fucking_ Snow - the enemy - and everyone rolled over for him like he was one of the Children.

"Stop!" Oh speak of the Others, said Crow was giving orders. And they were all listening. If he were holding the reins and not Tormund, Orell would just keep going.

The Giantsbane however did as Snow said, yelling at the others to do so even though they already had. "What's wrong Snow?"

He didn't say anything back, eyes squinting through the rain to see the ground below them. What was he doing? Trying to lead them the wrong way probably. Orell opened his mouth to say just that but shut it again when Ygritte turned away from hugging her pet to glare at him. 'Just try it' that look said 'see what happens next.' 

Finally Snow looked back up. "He's changed direction, heading north-east. He keeps going that way he'll probably go past...that."

He pointed off in the distance, to what Orell couldn't tell. How could anyone tell in all this rain? Was there even anything there? 

It didn't seem to be a problem for Ygritte though. "That's a tawah, you called it."

"'Tower.'" He corrected her, smiling back. Bastard, talking down to her like that. The look was lost quick enough though as he turned to the rest of them. "We need to quicken our pace, the rain's washing the tracks away too fast."

Orell had to bite his tongue that they wouldn't be in this mess if they'd just done things like normal and not listened to his plan, no one wanted to listen to him right now anyway. So he let Tormund gallop along behind their new leader, all the while fretting over the moment when the Crows would jump out of their hiding spots and knife them all. 

The rain was getting worse, Snow had been right about that at least, torrents of it now beating down on their heads and shoulders, drenching them to the bone. The land too was growing sodden, more than once their horses nearly lost their balance; at last the inevitable happened, one of the horses missed a step and went down. It got back up again just fine, the riders not so much. Errok had landed hard and snapped his neck, dying instantly, whilst Big Boil broke his leg - something new to complain about. No one looked back, certainly not Jon Snow.

_He's killing us off already!_ Orell wanted to scream it to them, he even tried, but a sudden clap of thunder drowned him out. They were riding to their deaths and no one but him knew it.

He had to get word back, had to warn someone - warn Mance - the Crow was showing his true colours and no one knew. But the horses never stopped, charging through the mud towards a tower that he couldn't see for a man they couldn't find with help that wasn't coming. Maybe the man was gone, maybe this was where they all died. Maybe-

"There!" Damn that Crow's crow eyes! He was pointing ahead at something beyond them. Leaning around as far as he dared, Orell tried to see what Snow had but all he saw was grey and brown. Not so for Snow though as he ducked down. "Ygritte!"

She didn't say anything back, merely lifted up from her perch behind him and aimed her bow into the gloom. Surely she couldn't have seen anything, not in this! Ygritte was lethal in the North but this wasn't the North, wasn't their home, and she had never fired an arrow from on top of a horse!

But fire it she did...and the pained whinnying of a struck horse echoed back at them. Hearing that Ygritte fired off three more arrows, all claiming further cries of distress from the ghost. One more was loosed and this time there was a horrified cry to go with that of the horse, followed by a splash. They'd got him.

Out of the haze shapes began to take form. First the tower that Snow and Ygritte had said they saw appeared like some ghost castle, come to swallow their souls. Then came the fallen horse, three arrows in its side, one in its right hind leg and the last caught in its neck. Poor creature was choking on its own blood, its whimpers cut in with spurts of dirty red. It was enough to put a shiver through Ygritte, Orrel saw, but that was all, a moment later she was herself again. Even the Crow seemed grim about that as he got down from his own horse. Their quarry wasn't far, still conscious but dizzy from his own fall. 

Not waiting around, Snow hauled him up and then tossed him over to Tormund who caught him just as easy.

"With you in a moment." Was all he said before turning back to the downed horse who was still crying. 

Something resembling sadness crossed his eyes and he knelt down to the stricken creature, stroking its mane ever so gently as if that alone would heal it. The horse itself lessened its cries though, and Snow was able to wrap both his arms around its neck. And then he twisted.

There was an awful crack and the horse went limp.

_He killed it like it was nothing._ Orell had always hated Jon Snow, from the moment he saw him he knew the boy was no friend, but that had been held in check knowing that he could be dealt with easily. A green boy from the South was nothing, would always be nothing, compared to a true Northerner...but this was no green boy. He didn't even look back at his kill as he stood back up and rejoined the group. 

"You did it a kindness, Snow." Tormund told the Crow, sounding amazed that such could ever be kind. "Bad way for anything to go, that."

But Snow was just looking at the man. It gave Orell the shivers, looking at this new Jon Snow, surrounded by rain, thunder and lightning. How would he kill this one? How would he kill them?

_"...dor!"_

What? Suddenly he was looking around. Did he just hear something? The wind blustering around them made it hard to tell, the rain now heavier than anything he'd experienced this side of the Wall making vision nearly impossible. 

Lightning struck again, thunder a second later...

_"Ca...or! No mo...or!"_

There! After the thunder...and right on top of them. The tower!

Someone was watching them.

**Jon**

Odd. Jon thought he'd feel more from killing things now, but if aversion to death was the thing Bran said he had lost, that quality had not made the return journey with him.

_Or maybe I've done so much killing that even inhabiting this green boy's body can't fix it._ A worrying thought but he'd have to shove it aside for now. They had the man, now all he had to hope was that the wolf that he half-remembered helping him last time was still around...if it ever had been at all. And even if it did show up when he used the Summoning, it would be a tough sell to convince this lot that it was a Dire Wolf. And even if he did, Tormund was the only one he was certain would absolutely not attack him. He couldn't say the same for Orell, nor the others...nor Ygritte.

Fuck, he hadn't thought this through.

_Well, too late now._ He'd just have to hope his plan would work and do whatever else he could to survive if it didn't.

Shaking off those thoughts, Jon rejoined the rest of the group. Orell had his back to them though, staring up at the tower. Part of him wanted to ignore the warg's actions considering that, if all went as he hoped, he'd have half the Gift between them. But everything he did put Jon's hairs on edge and caused his chest to itch, better to keep an eye on him lest he actually lose an eye this time. He was looking up, at the tower where his hawk circled.

Again, he had to keep back a smirk at how well the first step went. Warging into Orell's hawk had been difficult, mostly because the hawk was  _Orell's_ and not a free agent, but the results were worth it. His plan may have 'failed' but that was on Orell's seeming need to make him look bad than anything he did.

But that was besides the point, what was he looking at? 

And then he heard it. 

_"...odor, sto...t!"_

It could have been the wind. He really hoped it was the wind because otherwise this was the cruelest sort of irony Jon could have thought up. 

Lightning struck.

_"Hod...HODOR!"_

_"Bran, you have to-"_ Thunder rumbled over the rest, but it was too late. Jon had heard the name.

Bran.

For a moment the world stopped. Bran was up there? And Hodor? Maybe Rickon too...he couldn't truly be that lucky...but he remembered a wolf...no, not a wolf...

"I heard shouting!" Orell called back over his shoulder, not looking away.

Tormund turned away from their captive to stare up at the beaten tower before scoffing. "Thunder."

The warg didn't like that, squawking indignantly. "I know the difference between shouting and thunder!"

"Might be it's  _ghosts."_ The bearded man shot back mockingly before letting out a laugh and calling out to Jon. "This where you feed me to one of them, Snow? Big scary tower ghosts! Har!"

_Ghosts...Ghost...Summer!_ It snapped into Jon's mind before he could banish the hope. If life really was set to be so cruel to him, then maybe...just maybe... 

Stretching out with his senses, he started to search. Not with his eyes, but with his ears. The hunting party around him turned to fog, the old man slipped away, even the tower which might hold one or even two of his brothers vanished from his mind and he just listened. He listened to the wind stripping away at the broken storehouses surrounding them, to the rain as it slammed into his head, to the mud beneath his feet as it churned and squelched with each little movement. 

The squelching of each person's footprint is different, much like the steps a man makes in the snow. It was a lesson Jon had learned beyond the Wall with his Free Folk: Ears opened you up to the world far better than the best eye ever would. Thick steps were more often than not men and women trudging through the snow, good to know when you might wander into another clan's territory and you didn't know they were watching you. And light footsteps, quick and agile...well that was when you had to run or fight because that's when the wolves were on you.

It was the same here, listen for the light steps in the mud. Listen for the wolf. 

"Cut his throat!" Orell's voice piped up over the noise, but Jon blocked him out. He needed to know...something fell loose, something small by the sounds of it, and he glanced back. The rain made it impossible to see without squinting...but there were certain benefits to journeying in a storm. 

_Any_ _second now._ They were right off the centre so if he just waited...

Lighting cracked above them, illuminating a broken down cart with only one wheel. And two large canine heads; one silvery grey, the other black as night, both of them staring right back at him. 

It took the air right out of his lungs, there was the proof. Life hated him.

"Let me stand at least!" The shivering voice of a scared man trying to be brave cut his concentration and brought Jon back to reality. The old man from the cottage. "Let me go with a bit of dignity!"

Tormund merely shrugged and pulled him up with one tug of his meaty arm, his curved short sword in the other hand. Once he was up, the tall man took the blade in both hands and set to swing. 

"Make the Crow kill him." Orell piped up again, staying Tormund's hand just for a moment and, without having to look, Jon just knew Ygritte was fingering her bowstring to keep from putting an arrow in him. The warg didn't care as he turned his attention to him, "You're one of us now? Prove it."

Strange, in his memories Jon always remembered him sounding far more certain of the outcome. But now when he looked at Orell, he could make out fear in his eyes. Orell was afraid of him? What had he done to earn that? 

_Never mind that._  He could just hear the Ygritte in his head telling him to stop woolgathering.  _Focus, Jon Snow!_

The Ygritte in the flesh at his side was just as vocal, though with a different target in mind. "F'fuck's sake, Orell! Enough already!" 

"No." He muttered, a calming hand raised just ahead of her, though he dared not look back. Instead he focussed on the poor soul who'd been caught in the middle of this. "It's alright. I'll do it."

"Get on with it then." Orell barked, shuffling back and giving Tormund a look, to which the man gave him a tired one in return before shrugging and stepping away. 

"Finally get to see you use that steel of yours, Snow." He muttered as he joined the rest of the party encircled around them. 

At his utterance, for just a moment, Jon faltered. Him? Use Longclaw? For this? No. Longclaw deserved better than that, the killing of an unarmed man was knife work. And it just so happened he had a knife with him, or rather a dagger.  _The_ dagger. 

It was a bitter sigh he'd sighed when he realised he had that back as well as the Valyrian steel bastard sword, but it was what it was. At least he could use it for something worthwhile now, instead of...anyway, Jon shook his head at the idea and pulled the dagger out of its sheath. "Sword's too big, this'll do the job."

"Do it then!" Orell urged impatiently, obviously not caring what blade Jon used when he proved the warg right for mistrusting him, though Tormund and some of the others looked put out at not seeing Longclaw put to use. Sighing, Jon just nodded and walked forward, dagger ready. 

The man stared at him trying not to wince at the small blade, didn't matter the size, it could still kill him as well as any sword. "She looks sharp." He stated, trying to relax. "Castle forged? Good workmanship."

Jon managed to smile back as he closed the distance between them and gripped the man's shoulder tightly. "Don't tense up. Believe me, it'll hurt more if you do."

"Oh, I'd hate for it to hurt at all." His victim replied, trying to laugh but just ended up choking.

"Hmm." Was all he said back before glancing around them at the expectant or distrusting faces around him. No way was this poor sod getting out alive, whatever he did. Better to just end it good and quick, a nice firm jab through the heart and he would be gone before he even felt the blade. It would be peaceful, having been on both ends of this sort of execution, he knew that much.

Yet still, he hesitated. He could do this, easily...so what was he waiting for?

"Do it!" Orell again.

He was out of time, save a life only for it to die later? Or save him the trouble by dying now without the mistake?

_"The freedom to make my own mistakes was all I ever wanted."_

_Mance..._ the decision was made. 

Raising his hand high for all to see the blade, Jon rammed it back down right into the man's chest. He let out a pained wheeze, nearly collapsing in his grasp, but Jon held him steady. Leaning in so that no one but his victim could hear him, he whispered into his ear.

"We are the Watchers on the Wall."

Shock plus recognition slapped across the man's face at those words, he knew them well enough, probably from his youth when the Night's Watch still held some meaning. Hopefully it would give him comfort as Jon lay him down to rest, breathing easing out as he went under. Jon remained kneeling, ignoring the muttered 'well dones' and 'he actually did its' around him.

It was time.

As the boys Quort and Bodger surrounded him, Jon sucked in a deep breath...and then shouted out to the winds.

_"MAG ULF COHR!"_

For a moment nothing happened, his summoning silencing everyone in the party, and for a moment Jon held the terrifying thought that the wolves had left. If they had, he was doomed.

"What's that, Snow?" Quort asked, "Some odd Southron thing? The hell's a Co-rarrgh!"

His screams had Jon looking up, the youngster had been smacked away onto the mud, his brother rushing over to him and pulling him back up. His face had been slashed open from nose to ear in three jagged bloody strips. What could have done that?

And then he heard the growling, one on his left and one on his right. One silver, yellow eyes flicking in all directions, one black save a front paw that dripped red, green eyes burning with savagery. 

"Summer...Shaggydog..." His brothers' wolves had come.

There was silence around them, those not in pain were staring at the huge creatures that had just attacked one of their own and seemed to be protecting their Crow ally. But it was Tormund who was staring at him the most and it was only then that Jon remembered: Tormund spoke the Old Tongue,  _Mag Nuk,_ as well. He knew exactly what Jon had just said, which meant he also knew that these were no ordinary wolves to require that command.

"Jon..." Was that Ygritte? More importantly, did Ygritte just call him by only his first name? She was eyeing the two Wolves as well, unsure whether she should be aiming to kill them or aiming anywhere but at them. "What's...?

"He's a Crow!" Orell's voice suddenly trilled out, his sword coming out with a ring of steel on wood as it exited its scabbard. Pointing the blade at Jon, he continued his diatribe. "He's always been a Crow! Them wolves are Stark creatures! Starks protect the Crows and these wolves protect him! He'll have 'em rip our throats out the first chance he gets!"

His words spooked the others, Quort edging further back whilst Bodger drew his own steel glaring viciously at Jon and the wolves which prompted Summer to growl a warning and Shaggydog to snarl in anger.

It should be noted that Summoning, as it was called in the True North, forged a temporary link between the summoner and the animals he called...and Jon had called two Dire Wolves, one of which had a tendency towards bloodletting. That nature now coursed through his mind and body and he glowered at the sacks of flesh garbed in the skin of dead prey. Look how easy they flocked, how simply they listened to their stupid tweeting bird man - his would be the last throat he ripped open, the last he dined on. Sweet succulent bird, it had been a while since he ate so well, always on the run like this. He would savour it.

Only Tormund and Ygritte, for their own reasons, stepped back, the larger of the pair flicking knowing looks at the Wolves to warning ones at the group, Orell in particular. "Don't do it."

But the warg didn't hear him, too high on being right probably. "We gonna let him get us, boys?"

"No!" Bodger yelled back, loud enough for him and Quort who was struggling back to his feet and drawing his own blade.

"Well then, let's serve up some crow!" He crowed out in finality. 

All Jon needed to hear, the predatory urges from the black Wolf pulling his mouth into a beastly grin of his own, his crouch subtly shifting into a position to spring from.

"Shaggy." 

"Kill him!"

_"JAK!"_

**Tormund**

No one would ever call him a coward, those who did usually ending up without a mouth to say anything again, but the moment Tormund heard Snow speaking Old Tongue - and not just any but  _Mag Nuk -_ and those two massive wolves appeared out of nowhere he realised they were fucked. And stupid Orell, the chirping idiot, was still rambling on about his Crow-ness. If he'd shut up for a moment and realise  _what_ those two creatures were, he'd not be so eager to get to the bloodletting.

Oh he was furious, ready to pull the Crow's guts out with his fingers, but he hadn't lived this long by being stupid. He remembered the Rule, a very simple rule, easy to remember: No one, be they Free Folk, Thenn, or Giant, fucked with a Dire Wolf...and there were two of them guarding Jon Snow and Grandpa Southerner. Not that these idiots cared as they drew their steel, which got the black one basically throthing at the mouth in fury and Snow's face shifted to match. 

_He's a Warg too?_ How'd they not catch that?! Bad enough he could speak the Tongue, but if he could actually bond with these animals...

"Don't do it." He heard himself say, to who he couldn't be sure.

But neither side listened.

"Shaggy."

"Kill him!"

_"JAK!"_

_Fuck!_

As the command left Snow's lips, Tormund dove into the mud. Good thing too, the black Dire Wolf that looked like it enjoyed ripping men apart had launched forward at speeds its tiny southern cousins would never match - one moment it was there, the next it had its jaws around Bodger's sword arm, the moment after that Bodger was without a sword and an arm. He went down in a mass of red and screaming. Poor fucker never stood a chance.

Next up was Quort, who took one look at the mangled state of his brother and promptly pissed himself...the wolf was not amused. Maybe that was why it lunged for his cock first, biting into his crotch so hard the boy let out a pathetic squeal. 

"Get off me! Get off me!" He cried over and over again, dropping his weapon and hitting the creature on its head over and over again. The wolf didn't listen, in fact he almost seemed to find it funny as he dragged the poor thing to the ground and started shaking him around, up and down, left and right, as if he were some toy to be played with and his pleas were just part of the game. 

Whilst that all happened Snow bounded forward from his perch, one leg kicking out behind him into Ygritte's belly and sending her to the ground. Whilst she scrambled to get back up, the Crow launched himself across the mud, rolling under Orell's first swing and twisting around his body until he had himself facing the stupid twat again. His face was twisted into a feral snarl, all teeth, and he bounded right at the warg. Was he trying to get himself killed?

Orell didn't make a swing this time, instead making to skewer him on his blade, but Snow didn't stop and the steel ran right through him.

"NO!" The scream caught Tormund's ear and he turned in time to see Ygritte stood up, a look of pure fury in her eyes at the sight of her Crow speared by Orell...fuck she was gonna do something stupid. He was proved right as the spearwife pulled an arrow out and had it pointed at their warg, preening idiot that he was, she wouldn't miss. And then she'd get gutted too, those wolves didn't look happy either. 

Jumping back on to his feet, he rushed her down before she could loose the arrow, pulling her back down to the ground. The moment he did she started kicking and shoving and wriggling her way out, forcing him to hold her harder. "Stop! He's one of them! Ya hear me?!"

She didn't respond, just kept scratching and biting and desperately trying to get out to help her man, poor girl. But wolf or not, Snow wouldn't get back up from a wound like that...neither would Orell, once the black Wolf was done shredding Quort up. 

And then Snow spat in Orell's face. That stopped them all short, a mistake he punished the warg for with a strong punt to the face that sent him reeling back losing his steel as he did so. He'd never gotten Snow at all, it had just slipped past his side and pit. Now Snow picked up the weapon in his right hand, twirling a knife Tormund hadn't seen on him before in his left...wait, that was Grandpa's knife! He must've picked it up when he was rolling in the mud.

But he didn't attack, he just stood there staring the idiot down. "Congratulations, Orell. You were right the whole time."

Something sagged beneath Tormund's grip, Ygritte had heard that as clear as he did. Poor girl...poor Snow too, once she got her hands on him. Said Crow then turned his eyes to them, glancing down quick to the girl he'd just stabbed in the back then back up to Tormund himself. "You want a turn?"

Oh he did, nothing would make him happier than to rip that boy's head off and serve it to the Crows once he burned down Castle Black and left them all to the Others. Bastard had got them all, got Mance to give him a chance, got them to listen to him, got them to fucking  _like_ him, got Ygritte to fucking  _fuck_ him...and those two Dire Wolves had got them all. There was no way out, no way in hell was he fighting a Dire Wolf, not even for Mance.

He must've given that away because Snow just gave him a tiny nod and glanced over to the Wolves. "Shaggy, Summer,  _Cohr Ihr."_

At his command, the Wolves obeyed. The Silver one came quickly, those queer eyes watching them all as Snow began to back away towards the horses. The Black one gave one last tug of Quort's corpse, ripped something off and stalked up to Snow's side, its snout more crimson than black now, making a show of the flesh it had bitten off of the boy. 

Each of Snow's hands rested on their heads, not ruffling or nuzzling, more holding them in place. The warning was clear; they fucked with him, the Wolves would fuck with them. 

"You want to continue this dance at another time?" Snow offered, as if he hadn't just loosed wild beasts on them all. He didn't wait for an answer. "All right, we'll finish it. At Castle Black."

Without waiting, he turned his back on them with nought but a  _'Fok'_ to the Wolves who fell into line beside him. 

And that would have been it, Ygritte finally wrestled herself free but she didn't run after him. How could she? The Wolves would be on her the moment she tried. But just going by her shaking form, Tormund could see she was pissed off. If not for those two beasts, she'd have launched an arrow at Snow's back. The should've been it...

"Snow!" And there it was, Orell the Idiot who Got them All Killed - good enough song title for Mance, surely - was back on his feet and before anyone could stop him his eyes went white and his bird let out a livid caw before diving out of the sky straight at the Crow's back.

_No, no you fucking idiot, no!_ Desperately, Tormund thundered over to the moron, intent on shaking him back to them. He was going to set them off!

But Snow got there first. "Summer.  _Mat."_

At his order the Silver wolf came about and, with one flick of his jaws, the bird was down. Another and it's head was ripped off, swallowed whole.

_Oh fuck._ The moment the bird's head was gone Orell let out a pain-filled screech, his body doubled over and he started writhing on the floor.  _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Tormund knew what this was, he'd seen it before when a warg's animal was killed with the warg still inside. Snow couldn't have known what he'd just done...or maybe he did. That thought sent a chill down his back as he stared at the braindead mess of limbs that had been their eyes. 

"Bad way to go." The Crow's words had him looking back up at him. "Do him the kindness, would you?"

_'Kindness?' It was you that did it!_ He wanted to shout it, but all he could do was glare as Jon Snow once again turned his back on them and hopped onto a horse at random, called out to his two new friends, and then all three of them vanished into the rain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> King of the Wargs.  
> And that's our first casualty of the story. Bye bye Orell! Shall not be missed.  
> The pack just got a bit bigger for Jon. 'But Kaullus!' I hear you ask 'What about the boys? They'll never survive without their wolves!' Well I did state it was a temporary bond, Summer and Shaggy are good boys but they're not Ghost, as soon as Jon's done with them they'll go back to their rightful Starks.  
> I did say Jon learning the Old Tongue would be useful, didn't I? The Old Magic stirs.
> 
> Speaking of,  
>  **Mag Nuk translations: ******  
>  _Mag Ulf Cohr _\- "Great Wolf Come."__  
>  _Jak _\- "Hunt/Attack"__  
>  _Cohr Ihr _\- "To Me"__  
>  _Mat _\- "Eat/Feed"__  
>  _Fok _\- "Follow"__  
>   
>  So in case anyone's wondering where I got the ideas for the Old Tongue I used here...I made it up. Not entirely mind you, 'Mag' comes from 'Magnar' which I'm assuming means 'Great man/person.'  
> The rest I'm taking from Norwegian and cutting it up to form shorter more Old Tongue-y sounding words, though some like 'Ulv' are short enough as it is and I just changed a letter.


	6. Off the Beaten Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion. What more can I say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing a lot of strong opinions, to put it politely, regarding Ygritte in this story. Dunno if that's coming from primarily Jonerys fans, but could you tone it down a notch?  
> I like Ygritte, there I said it.  
> Doesn't mean she and Jon will be getting back together in the near ever and just because my aim is **eventual** Stargaryen doesn't mean I'm gonna put an arrow in her back (lookin' at you, Olly, ya little shit!).

**Jon**

He got all of half a mile before he had to let it go, the forced connection between himself and the two Dire Wolves wasn't a terrible inconvenience - the fact they were Ghost's pack made the strain a bit easier to maintain - but it still hurt like hell just to keep them both with him. He'd have severed the bond the moment they were out of Ygritte's range, whatever that might be, but he'd been expecting an ordinary wolf that he'd feel no great loss over if it got killed. Bran and Rickon's Wolves however were another matter entirely and he wouldn't deprive Ghost of his brothers a second time, so he held on to the connection for as long as he could take it.

That limit had now been reached and he pulled his horse to a stop before letting out the disbanding phrase.  _"Ulf Ski."_

Immediately the strain vanished, the edging thoughts and feelings vacating his mind until there was only himself in his head again.

"Fuck," Jon rasped out, leaning forward to nurse the inevitable headache. "Haven't felt like that in years."

Probably because of the body he was inhabiting, it had never learned how to consciously share space in its mind. That was a problem. His best feat to date with Summoning was during a scrap with a bunch of Thenns east of the Frostfangs, he'd needed help and so had said the words and before they knew it Ghost had been leading the charge with a family of bears at his back. Naturally Tormund had bigged up the story to it being an army of bears, elk, wolves, and even Drogonhimself in one retelling. That was when people had started calling him King of the Wargs.

He'd have to train it back up, find animals to summon and command until he was back up to where he'd been before. Hells but that would be annoying. Still, as Tormund liked to say, 'why cry over a broken sword? It's still got an edge.' It was a shit saying but the point behind it was clear, so he put his grumbles aside. Better to focus on the here and now.

And here and now included the querying barks from the two Wolves on either side of his amazingly brave horse. Reminding himself to never let such an incredible creature out of his sight, Jon dismounted and knelt beside Summer. The silver-grey animal stared back at him, yellow eyes filled with the same uncanny intelligence he'd seen in Ghost's Weirwood red ones. He knew him, Jon was sure of it. 

Shaggy then butted in, tugging on his arm for attention.

"Alright, alright, boy!" He chuckled, ruffling the black one's furry head much as he would have done for Rickon. "It's good to see you too, both of you!" 

Shaggy barked happily at that and nudged his snout under Jon's hand, insistent on getting as much attention as he could. As for Summer, he remained content to watch but seemed happy enough when Jon ran his other hand gently over his brow. It was surreal, only hours ago he'd been staring at this one's bones and the last he'd seen of Shaggy was his severed head outside of Winterfell. 

And now they were back. They were both back. 

A wave of emotion suddenly slammed into Jon, as strong as when he had first seen Sansa at Castle Black scared alone but  _alive._ Just like then he followed that wave and wrapped his arms around both Wolves, pulling them into a strong hug. He'd lost them, he'd lost them both, and now they were here.

"I've missed you, boys." He whimpered into their fur. "I've missed you  _so much..."_

Gods, would that he could show Ghost this. These were his brothers Jon was holding so tightly. Again he tried, as he'd been doing all day, to reach out to his Wolf and establish their connection, but every time he did something blocked him. This wasn't like using  _Mag Nuk_ , their bond had existed since their meeting, it should have been child's play to find him yet it felt as if there was a wall in the way, cutting them off from each other. 

He needed to find him, needed to show him this. Their first success...but no...

Summer and Shaggy were Bran's and Rickon's too, theirs to stand alongside just as he stood with their brother. Which meant he had to take them back. He didn't want to, he wanted to keep them, to take them with him to Castle Black and then to the True North where they belonged...but then Rickon would never see Shaggy again and Bran...he wouldn't be alive without Summer's help. He  _needed_ to take them back, they needed him to take them back.

The rain would die down soon, the thunder now edging further south, once that went his horse's tracks would be clear for Ygritte and Tormund to track. His best chance would be to wait for night but that was still some time away, so he would have to go around and back up, lead them on a merry chase and just hope he found his brothers first.

_Well, might as well get on with it Snow._ So, resisting all protests to stay nestled amongst his pack as best he could, Jon pulled away from the two. Shaggy yipped in annoyance but was silenced by Summer prodding him with his nose, a near-common thing if the look the black Wolf was shooting him was anything to go by. Just so.

Smiling at the two, Jon stood back up. "Come on, boys. Let's go find your other halves."

That got an excited bark out of both Wolves and this time he couldn't resist grinning; just like Ghost, they were happiest with their boys. 

"Alright then, Shaggy, you lead and I'll follow." He wouldn't use  _Mag Nuk_ for this, there was no need. "But we need to be careful. We don't need to be fighting any more people for a while, alright?"

The black Wolf huffed something, sounding somewhat unwilling but at least he  _seemed_ to be agreeing to that suggestion. Jon had seen how he'd ripped Quort apart, the savagery of his mind was beyond anything he'd ever felt from a Dire Wolf - Ghost, at least, had never been so brutal with his kills. Thank the Gods he had Summer, who seemed more like the albino Wolf, to keep his brother in line in case anything happened.

Jon only hoped Shaggy's state of mind was not indicative of Rickon's. He'd lost his baby brother once to Ramsay Bolton's arrows, he wouldn't lose him again to madness.

**Osha**

Night was coming on, best time to move was now not that she was all happy with leaving the Little Lord to the North. He'd never seen what was out there, nor that Lordling who said he'd seen that Three-Eyed-Raven nor his sister. There was nothing but death beyond the Wall and she'd have no part in taking him, nor his brother, to it. They ought be going to Castle Black like the old Maester had told them to, not go hunting for dreams.

But Little Bran was a stubborn one, a proper Stark him. He couldn't be swayed even though his Wolf had up and run off south with their bastard brother he'd said was out there. She'd have felt better if Summer had been with him but, as it was, all the Little Lord had was a gentle giant and two children. 

And now she and the Littlest Lord, Rickon, were headed south to the Umbers. He didn't like that, wanted to go with his brother, felt awful that he was leaving him. Good. Made him a good boy and she wouldn't fault him for it. But she wouldn't lose him too, so to the great Umber warriors they would go and she would prey to whatever Children were still in this world that they didn't skewer her on sight.

"I don't want to go to the Umbers." Little Rickon whimpered for the latest time, hand still held tight in hers as they followed the path Bran had told them to follow though his gaze always slipped back the way they came. "I want to go with Bran."

"I know, little soldier." She said back, "An' he'd do good t'have ya. But he's your big brother, gotta listen to him when he talks. Big Lord of Winterfell, he is."

"Robb's Lord of Winterfell." He said back, "He'd tell Bran to take me with him. If he'd never gone, he'd tell him."

"I'm sure he would, lad." Osha lied. She remembered the Lord Robb Stark; young but gifted if a bit arrogant, but then he was a Lord in a castle, but he loved his brothers something fierce. He'd never send them into danger.

More than could be said for that traitor friend of his, Greyjoy. She held little love for most folk in Winterfell, she was of the North and they were Southerners, but she'd held her boys in the Crypts as they cried their eyes out over every one that was killed; over Ser Rodrik who taught them to use a sword, over Old Nan who sounded half Free Folk herself from the stories she could tell, even old Lewyn. Those were people her boys had loved and that squid had killed them all.

For that she would see him pay, for them, her boys who he had hurt, he would one day get a spear through his heart.

But those were deeds for another day. For now she needed to get her one remaining boy somewhere safe...wherever that was.

The Wall was starting to shrink some, the moon rising high above, when something brought them to a stop. There were trees to the left, fields to the right, and darkness everywhere. That alone would be enough to make anyone wary, but something in the air itself gave Osha pause. Eyes were on her, she could feel it, that niggling little insistence that she'd been forced to develop ever since she lost her man was telling her they weren't alone. 

Little Rickon felt it too, tugging on her arm to keep moving. "I don't like it here. Let's keep going."

"In a minute, Little Lord." She murmured, trying not to show her fear. The wind was blowing down, taking their scent with it. If wolves were out they'd be on them in no time and no amount of running would save either of them. But her boy didn't need to know that.

A twig snapped to the left, she looked left, spear up and ready and her boy clutched close. Nothing appeared, that didn't mean there wasn't something out there. 

"Rickon," she whispered, loosening her grip on the lad, eyes never leaving the gloom "when I say, run."

"Where?" 

"Anywhere. Don't look back, you hear screamin' don't look back, you hear me dyin'-"

"No!" The lad shouted, curse him, his little hand grabbing her cloak angrily. "You're not dying! No more dying! You're not allowed!"

"Not much choice." She said back, shoving him off, taking her spear in both hands as she eyed the shadows, trying to hear over the boy's bleating. "Somethin's comin'."

Something was; the earth was disturbed, low shrubs pushed aside, an animal waiting to pounce just ahead. Even Rickon went silent now, had he heard it?  _Might be better if he did._ She reasoned, knowing what was coming might make him leave her if he was scared enough. 

A growl, out of sight but within earshot, the final warning before the pounce. 'Any last words?' It was asking her, anything she'd like to say to her boy before she died for him? 

Well she did. "Rickon. Run!"

"No!" He grabbed hold of her arm again, not letting go. "Don't Osha!"

"Go, damn you!" She tried to throw him off but he just latched on harder, "You wanna be dead, is'at it?"

"No Osha, listen! It's Shaggy!"

_Eh?!_ Was the boy looking for any reason to stay now?! Her shock however did the one thing she swore never to do: loosen her hold on her boy. Half wild as he was, the moment he smelled her weakness, Rickon wrenched free and ran for the trees, calling out for his Dire Wolf. Horrified, Osha could do nothing but run after him, even though the voice of reason told her she was running to her death. A wolf's jaws or a knife in her throat, she was dead either way and her boy with her. 

"Little Lord?!" She couldn't see him, she couldn't  _see him!_ "RICKON!"

And then the night's silence was pierced by the growling of a wolf. 

_NO!_ Panic warred with heartbreak as Osha ran through the woods, all senses lost to the visions of a mangled little boy ripped apart by wild animals. Why did he run off? Why didn't she hold on to him? Her boy...her baby boy...dead like her man...

And then she was flying backwards, something big and heavy ramming into her chest and sending her into the ground. Landing with a hard thud, her head was all birdsong until she heard the rumbling from above, the savage rumbling of a beast. 

_So this is it._ She thought to herself, trying to summon the need to stand and failing.  _Mauled by a wolf whilst the little one serves as treats for the pups._  Said creature's hot breath was on her face, though the dark of night kept her from seeing anything proper. _I wanted to go out fighting..._

The wolf wasted no time after that, it lunged forward, jaws wide open...and suddenly her face was sodden with saliva.  _What?_

"Osha, look!" That voice, the bairn's voice! It was coming from above the blackness, which was still slobbering all over her. Wait...slobbering blackness...oh for all the Hells! A head suddenly popped over the black that loomed over her, wide-eyed and happy. "It's Shaggy! Shaggy came back!"

The giant Dire Wolf barked something at that, but Osha was to busy feeling something other than amazed at the sight of that big pile of viciousness - namely pure fury. The moment the Wolf backed off and let her up, she had Rickon by the ear and was hauling him off its back. "You stupid,  _stupid_ boy! What were y'thinking, running off like that?!"

"Ow! Osha, ow, you're hurting me!" 

"I should me hopin' I was!" She snapped back, holding back the desire to cuff him over the head to go with the tugging. "What'd I tell y'Ma when she and y'brother come back? 'Oh no, milord n'lady. Good news is, I watched y'boy. Bad news is, I watched 'im go an' get eaten!' Issat what you want me to tell 'em?!"

"But I - ow! - wasn't eaten, Osha!" Rickon protested, trying to pull against the hold she had on him and failing, "I found Shaggy! See!" 

"An' what if it weren't Shaggy?!" She shot at him, "What if it'd been a normal, every day,  _man eatin'_ wolf?!"

"I wager Shaggy would've ripped it apart." 

The new voice had her turning back to the darkness, spear back up and Rickon behind. "Who's there?! Come out now!"

"Peace, spearwife." The newcomer said, riding out of the gloom atop a big black horse. Messy unkempt black hair and grey eyes that stared you down, as if he were some spirit of the forest come for their lives. "You'll see no harm from me."

He'd forgive her if Osha didn't buy that. The man appeared to be one of her kind, he wore the sheepskins well enough, probably that lot workin' with their King-Beyond-the-Wall, he had the look of them too; hard living made for hard looks. It was all let down though by his face: She'd known girls this side of the Wall who weren't as pretty as that face.

The man saw her caution and gave her a wry smile. "You don't trust me. Good, but what if I showed you this?"

There was a rustling somewhere around them, and suddenly out of the bushes another giant wolf, this one with silver-grey fur, burst onto the scene. Little Bran's Wolf.

"Summer!" Rickon shouted happily, not caring for her attempts to hush him. 

The man's smile turned soft as he dismounted, not that Osha dropped her guard: A man who could sway a Dire Wolf away from its rightful master was not someone to be trifled with. "I swear to you Spearwife, on the Bones of the Children, I mean no harm to you or your charge."

"Fancy words s'all I'm hearin'." She shot back, neither her glare nor her weapon relaxing any. "Y'could say one thing an' then cut our throats the next. How's either of us s'posed to trust ya?"

"...Papa?"

The innocent words from her boy's mouth caught them both and they turned to Rickon who was staring up at the man with wide tearful eyes. "Is that you, Papa? But...but Bran said you weren't ever coming home."

And now the man's faced changed to a sad grimace and he knelt down to the earth, grey eyes not leaving the little one's blue. "No, Rickon. I'm not Father. Do you remember who I am?"

"How'd you know 'is name?" Osha demanded, not liking where this was going at all. Who'd told on them? Who else was coming? They needed to get moving, now.

But neither boy nor man nor Wolf moved. The man ran a hand over Summer's head once before talking to Rickon again. "How many pups did Father bring home that day?" 

"...Five, one for each of us." He answered, but then shook his head. "No, that's wrong. Mother said there were five. Bran said there were six. Five for us...and one for..." And again the Little Lord's eyes started to tear up, big and hopeful. "What was that one's name? Bran told me all their names."

Without any hesitation, a loving smile turning his face from pretty to beautiful, the man answered "Ghost."

And Rickon darted forward, before Osha could do anything to stop him or call him back, flinging himself into the man's arms. "JON! You came back! Everyone said you couldn't but you did! You came back!"

Now she was flummoxed. Jon? The brother at the Wall that Bran said he'd seen with those folks who killed the old man? Wouldn't be the first Crow to go over to her folk but from the ways Lord Robb and then Bran talked about him, Jon Snow would sooner hang himself than break his word. And yet her boy was sure of it, the moment he said that word it was as if the world had come alive again.

He was crying, big splotchy tears probably running down his cheeks if she knew him well enough, but the real surprise - and she couldn't be sure that this wasn't her seeing things in this darkness - was that Jon Snow seemed to be crying just as hard as well, murmuring into the boy's shoulder "I'm sorry, Rickon. I'm so sorry..." over and over again.

What he was sorry for, she could hardly say, though the list was extensive. And right well he should be, leaving his family to go freeze his cock off up on that wall of theirs. About bloody time he was there for his own. 

At last he pulled away some, though he could hardly be said to have let go of Rickon, and turned his attention to her. "You are his protector?"

"I am." She would not lie, and if he thought she'd just walk away now because finally he took an interest in his blood again...

"Thank you." Jon Snow said, sounding like he meant every word. Now he stood up, though he kept an arm wrapped around the little one's shoulder, and marched over to her before offering his hand. "This act I will remember."

_That_ she hadn't expected to hear. It was something of her people, not a pledge of friendship, they were simple not stupid, more a show of respect. How'd a Southerner know that? Still, Osha knew her words in this, so she popped her spear into her left hand and returned the gesture, her hand gripped his forearm and he did likewise.

Their holds firm, she gave him the return. "I'll remind ya if y'forget."

Snow smirked some at that and gave her a small nod of his head before letting go of her arm, her doing the same, and returned to ruffling Rickon's head. That smile dropped a tad as he looked around. "I was hoping Bran would be with you, Summer belongs with him."

And now it was her turn to regret, how was she supposed to tell any Stark, even a bastard one, that she'd let one of theirs go over the Wall? At worst he'd think the boy would be killed by 'wildlings', if only he were that lucky. 

But the little one beat her to it. "He's going beyond the Wall to find the Three-Eyed-Raven. I wanted to go with him but he said I can't. Can you tell him I can Jon? You're older."

"Easy, Little Wolf." The big brother chided, patting his head which annoyed the lad some. "Too many things at once. You said Bran was going over the Wall?"

"Not alone." Osha found herself coming to the defence of Little Bran's fool idea, he was her boy though, she was the only one who got to punt him for his stupidity. "He's got that big fella Hodor, and two more Lordlings...Reeds I think was the name they gave."

"Reeds..." He murmured the name as if it meant something to him then brushed it away, turning his eyes on her. "So where are you two going? The Wall's the other way."

"Last Hearth." She offered, seemed enough to tell him that much. "The Little Lord said we'd be safe there."

"Umbers are fierce warriors!" Rickon added, pointing at her. "Osha said so, said they were just as good as wildlings. Have you met wildlings, Jon? Are they like Osha?"

"Aye, I've met some." Was all he said to that, sharing a look with her which she recognised at once as a man telling an innocent only half the truth. How many of her kind had he killed then? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? But he wasn't going for his steel so that would have to do. Then his smile wore away into a frown, as if he'd only just heard the little one's answer. "Hold on, you're going to the Umbers?"

"Yeah..." Why was he making it sound a bad idea? "Tough as ice, them. And loyal. Fightin' for your brother ain't they?"

"For my...?" And then it was the strangest thing, Snow's face went white as his name. As if he'd just been told a great secret that he'd once known but had forgotten, his eyes darting upward looking for something she couldn't see and then returning to them. He tried to play it off as nothing, but she held onto that memory. He'd just  _forgotten_ about his Lord brother had he? 

And then he said something really odd. "You can't go to Last Hearth. It's not safe."

"Give over." She snapped at once, hand tightening on her spear. "There's nowhere safer for a Little Lord like 'im than a big castle with soldiers and steel to protect him."

"A big castle like Winterfell?" He asked, just as short. "How safe were my brothers there?"

His question shut her up right there. So he'd heard of it, knew what that squidling had done. Still, she wouldn't back down on this to a stranger, didn't matter if her boy knew him. "Greyjoy'll get his one day. 'Sides, you've gone North. You know what's out there, you think I'm gonna let the lad anywhere near that?"

"And how long before Tywin Lannister hears Rickon's there?" Damn this pretty faced man who seemed to know every question to ask to ruin her Little Lord's ideas. And damn him again for having such a sad face as he peered down at his little brother. "When I heard the Ironborn had burned Winterfell to the ground and murdered my brothers, my heart broke. When their Wolves saved me I dared to hope they were alive, but if you take Rickon to Last Hearth, he'll lose his true protection."

"And what's that?" Osha prodded.

"Anonymity." He replied. "The world thinks Bran and Rickon are dead. Robb thinks it, their mother thinks it and, most important of all, Tywin Lannister thinks it. No one is looking for them. Let the world keep thinking that way and Rickon at least will be safe until he's fully grown. Take him to Last Hearth, I guarantee the Spider will know within the fortnight."

_And my boy will be back in trouble again._ By the Children, she knew this venture was cursed. But that just left her with the same question she'd been wondering for the last three turns of the moon: where in the world was there that her boys would be safe? 

She must have shown that frustration on her face, because Jon Snow offered her an answer. "When you came north, did you go by Queenscrown? Big tower surrounded by water?"

"Aye, I know the one." They'd stayed there two nights before, probably the safest stopping point they'd had in this whole journey. Was that his plan then? Hide in a tower until it all blew over?

Snow went on, "There's a cottage north of it, good sized, out of the way. No one would look for you there."

Well wasn't that convenient? "And who does this cottage belong to?"

"As of today, no one."

The message was clear there, her lot were at it again. Same lot that this one must've been travelling with before he up and abandoned them. Speaking of. "And what'll you be doin' whilst me and the boy follow yer plan?"

"Mance Rayder marches on the Wall." Snow replied grimly, "I need to get to Castle Black, warn them what's coming."

"They'll fill ya with arrows going back dressed like that." Anything but black on a Crow? He'd be dead before he got his first words out.

Oddly that seemed to amuse him, he was a strange man this Jon Snow. "They can try if they want, but if any of us want to survive what's really coming for us I need to get back."

'What's really coming'...so he did know. When he'd mentioned Mance, Osha had been afraid this one would be just another Robb Stark, so focussed on Southern problems that the North would be nought but a passing thought. But if he did know and he was planning to  _fight_ it, then he was madder than the maddest Cave man and half as likely to survive.

"...That cottage, it got food?"

"If Tormund didn't eat it all out, yes." Aye, that sounded like the old Bear Fucker, loved his feasts the ginger bastard did almost as much as his tall talking. "There's good farming land though, and it's close to a wood so game won't be a problem. Pantry'll be full after a few good runs."

_Could be a lie._  Southerners were good at that, promising things then sticking you in the back. This one seemed to be Jon Snow but maybe the real one told this one about his wolves and what to look for and that was how he'd fooled Rickon. Could be that he wanted a bargaining chip when the Crows came for him and hiding a Stark away would save his skin. Could be, could be, could be...but what choice did she have?

"You're leaving again?" Little Rickon, he'd been so quiet letting them talk. Osha could've killed herself, she'd nearly forgotten he was even there! And he didn't look happy at what they were deciding any more than what Bran had decided. "No! You can't go away! You can't! YOU CAN'T!"

At his yell, Shaggy let out an equally angry snarl, warded off only when Summer moved in between them. Snow's eyes darted once to the black Wolf before turning back to his brother, kneeling down so they were eye level.

"Rickon, it's not safe. Not here, not at the Wall or at Last Hearth or even across the sea." His words did little to appease the Little Lord and so he pulled him into another hug. "But in that little house, I'll know where you are. The Free Folk have passed that spot now, no one will know you're there but me. I'll be able to see you whenever I want."

"I want to go with you." The boy whimpered, hugging his brother back. "I want to go with you and Bran and Osha and Shaggy. I want to go with you and stay with you. Please don't go away again."

"Rickon..." Oh now the man was looking to start blubbing as well...but he held it in, took a breath and let it out again. Oh, she did not like where that one's mind was going. "All right, you can come."

"Snow!"

"But you have to wait a bit." Eh? Now what was he playing at?

Pulling back, Snow looked Rickon in the eye. "You have to wait until a night comes where the horns on the Wall blow loud and long. Wait for that night to end. When it ends, that means it'll be safe for you to come to me. All right?"

A night of horns? That would be when Mance attacked the Wall then, and he thought he could hold it? If Tormund was this side then the Crows didn't stand a chance. She would say this herself but Snow's eye slipped over to her for a second, the look in them telling her all she needed to know; he was lying through his teeth. It'd be no safer the next day, but he had to say something. It'd be for her to make sure the little one stayed put. Wonderful, more work for Osha.

_Fucking Starks. Never do anything easy, do they?_

But she had to sell it, so she knelt down next to them and tugged on little Rickon's shoulders until he backed into her hold. "There y'are, Little Lord. Big brother's gonna look after y'soon, then y'won't have any need've old Osha. You'll be with the Night's Watch, mighty defenders of the livin'. Won't that be an adventure?"

He didn't look happy about it, still looking mulishly up at his brother. "You promise you'll come back after that?"

"You'll be coming to me, Rick." Snow reminded him. "I won't be able to shake you off after that." 

That perked him up somewhat, though it was impossible to call his look happy but at least he wasn't fighting it. At last he nodded a tiny assent.

"Well, that's a relief." Snow muttered, putting on airs of relief and a big fake grin as he stood back up. "I was starting to think you'd set Shaggy on me if I didn't do what you said."

A giggle, finally, accompanied by a yip from the named Wolf. It still scared her a little how in tune the lad and that beast were with each other. Now that it seemed clear that Rickon would stay with her, Snow turned back to her. "North of Queenscrown. Keep him safe."

She wouldn't insult herself by prostrating any sort of loyalty to him or his family, she didn't know him, he didn't know her...but Rickon was hers now. So Osha just pulled her boy to her side as she too stood up and told him straight out. "He means the world to me. My little soldier." 

That seemed to do it for Jon Snow as he nodded and turned away from them, returning to his horse. With one push off the ground, he was up and a short whistle had Summer coming over after giving his brother an affectionate nudge of his snout. Osha would admit to wishing the silver Wolf was coming with them, but Bran needed his beast too in those dead lands. 

"You're a bit behind Giantsbane." She felt compelled to say, rubbing her hand through her boy's hair to keep him calm. "Not sure how you're gonna get past that lot 'fore they hit the next farm."

"You needn't worry on that score." He assured them, sounding somewhat bitter about it as he expanded. "I learned how to fool the Free Folk a long time ago."

There was a story there, she was sure, but that wouldn't keep her lad safe so she didn't ask. Little Rickon's distress was beginning to grow again the longer it took for him to leave though, something Snow caught as he leaned forward. "Hey, wanna see how I'm going to get past them?"

That sparked the boy's curiosity, as well as her own, and they both leaned forward to see. 

All they saw was a smile before Jon Snow sat back up again and called out to his horse. _"Vas Lop."_

_The fuck?!_ Before she could demand how a Southerner, a  _Crow_ of all people, knew the language of the Giants something flashed in his horse's eyes. A moment later there was a breeze of wind and the magnificent black creature had disappeared into the gloom, the shiny grey of Summer loping off after him being the only sign of where he was until even he had vanished. Like neither of them had ever been there to begin with.

_A warg..._  First Bran's dreams of being Summer, then Rickon's and now this one who spoke fucking  _Mag Nuk._ Did he even comprehend what it meant, that he could speak that language and the creatures of the land obeyed? Maybe the old stories of the Starks and the Children were true.

"C'mon, little soldier." Osha patted her boy, leading him back onto the path, back where something might be a touch less terrifying than the idea that legends were coming to life. "Let's go find that cottage."

"Okay." He murmured, trying to hold a yawn and failing. Poor little thing, tired and hungry, the sooner they found that house the better. "Osha...will we see him again?"

"Gods willing." She murmured, clutching him closer. Gods willing the Wall held against the dead. Gods willing Jon Snow was there to fight them. Gods willing he stayed there and didn't bring the dead here. "Gods willing, Little Lord."

Gods willing, because nothing was so terrifying as the thought that she had just come face to face with the  _Isobran._

**Jon**

Somewhere along the way Summer broke off from him, turning North towards the Wall, but Jon barely noticed. His horse could have thrown a shoe and he wouldn't have noticed. He just needed to ride, and ride and ride and ride, until the ripping in his heart finally stopped. He'd found Rickon, his baby brother alive and well and in the care of a woman of the Free Folk. How that had happened, he didn't care, whatever might have happened to her in his old life didn't matter either. Right now he wasn't thinking about any of that.

He'd found Rickon...and he'd been forced to leave him again. It was the right thing to do, the  _smart_ thing...and yet he was being torn in half. His last sight of his brother, twelve years ago, was as his body was carried away to be prepared for the Crypts. There were so many things to say, so many things he wanted to tell him, but Rickon wouldn't understand that now. Gods willing he'd never have to.

_Gods damn the Umbers!_ Twelve years and he still didn't understand their actions. Siding with Ramsay Bolton against a Lord Commander who let Wildlings through, that he could grudgingly see, but taking the baby brother of the man their Lord had named King and using him as a bargaining chip? Just how mad had the world turned? 

No, that didn't matter now, it  _wouldn't_ happen and he would hang every last Umber if that was what it took. Father would never have approved of that, neither would Robb.  _Well, tough. Father's dead and Robb...Robb..._

And then the shame hit. In ten years, ever since his exile, not once had his thoughts gone to the first brother he'd lost. He'd died, or would die, so far away from home, under the roof of a man who was obliged to protect him and betrayed by one of his own. That knife cut deeper than any of Walder Frey's treachery or Tywin Lannister's plotting, Bolton or not, the fact that it was a Northman that dealt the killing blow was the worst part of the Red Wedding.

He remembered the dream - wandering through the Crypts of Winterfell, the ancient Kings of Winter declaring him unfit to reside, and a grey wolf's head with golden eyes staring at him - and he remembered the night...or rather he remembered the moon of the night he dreamed it; a full moon, tonight's was the night before.

This time tomorrow Robb Stark would be dead again. And there was nothing Jon could do to stop it.

He'd been thrown back to this green boy body but in a place where he could do nothing for the boy who had been his best friend for the first sixteen years of his life. But he hadn't come back to save everyone, had he? Just to stop the Long Night properly this time. Of course there would be sacrifices along the way.

'The lone wolf dies.' Father had always said and Robb was a wolf far from his pack, no one there to look after him as he had always looked after them. 

Would that he'd listened to Grey Wind's concerns. Bran had told him once in their talks at White Tree, of the Red Wedding and Grey Wind's sensitivity to the natures of the Freys. Only one or two of the men had been even slightly decent, both of whom mysteriously disappeared just before it all went down.  _"Even our mother could feel it. She took more stock of Grey Wind's behaviour than Robb did. He put it down to taking him into battle too many times. He stayed South too long, forgot that the North is where he belonged."_

He did...and Arya almost got killed because of it. When Bran told him that she had been there, that she had seen what the Freys did to their brother and his Wolf...that was the first time Jon caught himself wishing that Drogon was still in Westeros and that they were still alive, maybe Dany had had the right of it after all. That night, naturally, he'd dreamed of the Bells again.

Arya and Robb were out there, in the Riverlands, so close yet so far and...wait...

Arya was in the Riverlands right now...which was where she had been separated from and, according to Bran, eventually been reunited with her Dire Wolf, Nymeria...and a very large, very wild, pack of wolves...

Suddenly he was pulling his horse to a stop (Jon was going to have to name this chap if they stayed together). Dismounting, he led his mount off the path towards a small grassy knoll where they could rest for the night. Even as he sat himself down on the ground, though, an insane plan was beginning to form in his mind. He'd never warged that far, not even with Chaining. The farthest had been to Winterfell to check on Sansa and even then he'd been rather close to the Wall at the time. To Chain his way to the Twins in his old body would have been a challenge. This one didn't have nearly the same level of practise.

This was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was  _bloody dangerous_...

_"...but the pack survives."_

Jon started looking for an owl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mag Nuk Translation ******  
>  _"Ski"_ = Separate/Part  
>  _"Vas Lop"_ = Beast Run  
> And the Littlest, Wildest Wolf is safe...for now. It's a long way to the end.  
> You know what this means, right? It means I can finally add Rickon and Osha to the Characters Tags! Bye-bye warg who was right, hello Wild little wolf and his Free Folk mum.  
> It's a dangerous gamble Jon's about to play. Is it gonna pay off?


	7. The Green Fork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, thousands of miles away...
> 
> Introducing to the story everybody's favourite little Murder Child and, according to my Canon, the future Night Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to no surprise here, at 7647 hits, 176 comments, 363 kudos and 127 bookmarks as of this posting, this is easily my most popular fic on AO3 and I've barely gotten started. Thanks to every single one of you wonderful crazy people.

**Arya**

There was smoke billowing out of the southern keep, evidence of the kitchens being used to cook up a mighty feast befitting a king. All too right, she thought, considering Robb was their king and her Uncle Edmure was the Lord of Riverrun. A wedding for either man should be as amazing as any feast she and her family had enjoyed in Winterfell. 

Somehow Arya still couldn't believe it; she was nearly there. If she thought she could, she would've have run that last leg all the way to the Twins, to her brother, to her mother, to  _home._

The crunch behind her of teeth pulling flesh from bone reminded her why she couldn't and she tore her eyes away from the smokey grounds, schooling her face into the fiercest glare she could remember Father ever pulling, and trudged back to the man with only half a face who was taking her there. The man who'd killed her friend. He was munching on a pig's foot, like he'd been doing on all the others since they'd robbed that farmer of his cart earlier that day. 

"No one's going to believe you're a hog farmer if you eat them all." She told him.

"Best part of the animal." He said back, waving the hoof in front of her as if daring her to take it off him, then went back to biting on it.

 _And we're running out of hooves._ What if there were men down there who liked pork hooves too? Had the stupid man thought of that? What if they got kept back because the idiot hadn't left any for anyone else? They'd be turned away before they got anywhere near the drawbridge, let alone the gates themselves.

She turned back to look at the Twins, to the grounds where the army was having its own celebration, to watch the smoke rising as a bird flew over the chimney and then another set off to fly into the woods. 

"Don't worry, they're still there."

Clegane's words had her snapping back round to glare at him. "I know they're still there."

He just smirked his ugly smirked at her as he scoffed another piece of pig. "You check every five minutes like you're afraid they're gonna move."

 _Fuck you._ No, she wouldn't lose her composure to him, not again. "I'm not afraid."

"'Course you are, girl." He cut back, deigning to stop his feast to needle her some more. "You're almost there. And you're afraid you won't make it, the close you get the worse the fear gets."

Damn him, how did he know? What did this stupid murderer know of wanting anything other than deciding which body he put in the ground next? 

"No point trying to hide behind that face." He told her, leaning forward some so his burns were even clearer for her to see. She wouldn't back down. "I know fear when I see it. Seen it a lot."

And with that he went back to tearing the pig's foot apart, probably thought he'd won. Arya wouldn't give him that. "I knew fear when I saw it in you."

He didn't believe her, even if he slowed his munching to humour her this one time before they were rid of each other for good. 

"You're afraid of fire."

The munching stopped.

"When Beric's sword went up in flames you looked like a scared little girl." She was needling him now. Maybe he'd kill her for it like he'd killed Mycah, but then he wouldn't get paid. She stepped forward now, so he could see her face - so he remembered it when the time came. "And I know why, too. I heard what your brother did to you; pressed your face into the fire like you were a nice juicy mutton chop."

The Mountain. She'd get him one day too, collect the whole Clegane family, maybe mount their heads on a wall in Winterfell so Joffrey and Cersei and everyone knew what wolves did to rabid dogs. And just for a moment the Hound's eyes flashed to a memory, his mean glare slipping to a sad frown for the briefest instance, a wounded little pup.

But that brief moment came and went, leaving only the mean again, and he took another bite. "That give you some ideas?"

"Might do."

And then she went back to the field, did her best to keep her feet still, to not ruin her chance of going home. She should be excited, but the Hound was right. Her belly was all knotted up tight. Last night she'd had a bad dream, a terrible dream. She couldn't remember what she'd dreamed of now, but the feeling had lingered all day. Something bad was coming, and the closer she came to Robb and Mother the more she feared that she was already too late to stop it. 

"Go ahead then." The hateful voice behind her cut in again, teeth catching on bone before ripping away and carrying right on. "You might get away, might even make it there on your own. They're just over the river."

She would if only she still had Needle, or Nymeria, or any of the gifts Jon had given her that she'd gone and lost. She'd be off in a heartbeat, jumping into Robb's arms and even letting Mother fuss over her if only to feel the slightest bit safe again. But she didn't. If she ran he'd run her down... _but home...I'm almost there..._

"Closest you've been to family since Ilyn Payne snipped your daddy's neck."

Ice. Was this fury? She thought she knew what that was, with Joffrey and Cersei and Sansa and all of _them_...but this vicious cunt...all she felt as she turned back to stare at this monster in armour was cold. 

"Someday," Arya promised him, no rage or shouting just concise and honest so he knew  _exactly_ what he would get from her, "I'm gonna put a sword through your eye and out the back of your skull."

She didn't wait to see what effect her words had on him, didn't care what he thought of a little girl putting him down for good. She just turned away and marched off back to the log, their unspoken border, and continued to watch the Twins. And all the while she prayed that whatever it was she was dreading was just a dream. 

_Just a dream. Please let it be just a dream._

**The Thrall**

The crow didn't want to be going this way, it wanted to collect corn from the human in the grey sack who wore metal around its neck - strange things, these humans - but now it was flying towards the trees. It didn't want to go to the trees, just like the one before it hadn't wanted to go to the Big Stone Place, and the one before that hadn't wanted to fly over the fields, and the one before that and the one before that and the one before that...but it did. The Other demanded that it did.

The Other, that was all the crow could call this feeling that directed it towards those trees where danger lay, a presence that had no face and sang no songs. It hadn't been there before but now it was, as if it had always been. And it insisted that the crow fly down into those trees where crows weren't safe. 

There were bigger birds in here, that liked to eat crow, living on those branches. Many a bird learned to steer away from such places after any number of their kind got snatched up by big talons never to be seen again. And that was just the trees. Wolves lived here now. Not the humans that wore the wolf head on their strange outer layers, real wolves, big and vicious and powerful, who liked to eat crows. 

Still deeper the crow flew, all its instincts telling it to fly away, the Other compelling it to keep going. This was wrong, it was dark and closed in. If a predator came there would be no escape. The crow had seen the Big Wolf that accompanied the humans that now resided in the Big Stone Place, it must have feasted on a hundred crows to get so big. What if there was another one in here? Bigger and meaner than that one, what if it liked crow too? 

A twig snapped, the Other pulled back and the crow had no choice but to obey, flitting over to a nearby branch and settling there. The sound came from deep within the trees, on the ground so maybe this was safe. No wolves could climb a tree this big, and no big birds either that it could see...maybe it could stay here a bit...just an adventure, something to tweet about when the Other left it alone.

Another snap, closer, to the left. The crow's eye was forced to look that way, to see what was coming. Nothing, just the gloom of the undergrowth. But now it was growing nervous, something was moving out there, something big, and it seemed to be coming this way. Every instinct told it to fly, to get out of this dark place and back into the light, but the Other held it down.

The something stalked closer, pushing aside shrubbery and fallen leaves, followed by a number of other somethings that were smaller but no less dangerous to a little crow. It would be really nice to fly now...and then it was spotted.

Two dark golden eyes peered out of the darkness, gaze fixed on the little bird. It drew nearer, drawing forth six more orbs of yellow that pushed through the gloom, prowling out into the evening light. The big one appeared first, a dark grey snout followed by the rest of it, a giant of a wolf, almost exactly the same as the Big Wolf that was with those humans in the Big Stone Place. But this one was different, for starters it was female. The crow didn't know how it knew that but something told it this was the 'she' of its kind. The other one's mate? 

After it came a pack of smaller wolves, all dangerous, all of them looking up at their next meal.

It wanted to fly. It wanted to fly! IT WANTED TO FLY!!

The crow tried to beat its wings, to bark in distress, anything...and finally it did, launching into the sky with a speed its fellow crows would never believe. Where it came from the crow didn't care, all it cared about was getting as far away from those trees as possible, maybe it should head north. Not many humans in the north. Maybe there was a Bigger Stone Place there that it could build a nest in.

So long as that Other never came back.

* * *

Too small, that bird would never fill the pack. Nymeria knew this, had done from the moment her nose picked up the scent of crow, but the little ones had wanted to see it so she led them on. Alphas should looked after their pack after all. There it was, tiny bird that wasn't worth the hunting...odd though for it to be here...

For a moment they made eye contact...and all of a sudden there was something pushing on her head. Something familiar but not. Like her bond with Wild Girl but not, distant and strained as if the connection was doing everything in its power to stay connected. She didn't like it.

Shaking her head once or twice to get the presence out did nothing, just intimidated the little ones. A couple of short barks had them back on her heel however as she spun around to return to the den, the pack needed her. But that other presence persisted, a whisper in the back of her head trying to get her attention.

Wrong. It was wrong. No one belonged in Nymeria's head but Nymeria...and maybe Wild Girl. She was close, closer than she had been since that day with the stupid golden human and the whiny red girl. How Sister had ever gotten her as a human...

She wanted to go to her...but she had pack to care for and she might just throw stones at her again, make her go away. 

_'Nymeria...'_

No. It was wrong. She couldn't go home so she made a new one, and Wild Girl was Wild Girl who didn't need help from anyone. Pack needed her, pack wanted her to stay, so she would stay.

_'Nymeria, can you hear me?'_

Out. Out! Her head was her head! 

_'Nymeria, please! I need your help! Grey Wind's in trouble!'_

Grey Wind...that was what the boy who was Wild Girl's pack called Big Brother. Too much of a listener that one, did what his human did when it told him to, probably got gloves and folded those coverings for it as well, he should know better. But why would Big Brother need help? He had his human for that, she needed to focus on pack.

_'Please, Nymeria! If you don't help, Grey Wind will be dead by nightfall!'_

Big Brother? Dead? No. Not possible. Big Brother was Big Brother, emphasis on 'Big', even White Brother wasn't as big as him when he and his human left. What lies was this other voice trying to play with her? No one brought down a wolf, certainly not Big Brother! Who was this?!

_'It's me, Nymeria, it's Jon. Remember? Arya's brother.'_

Jon...the name of White Brother's human. Quiet but kind, didn't belittle Wild Girl like Stupid Woman and Red Whinge, gave her that piece of thin sharp metal before he left. Wild Girl loved him for that. But how was he talking to her? He was White Brother's not hers. No, not important, Quiet One or not, her head was her head and he would get out now.

_'Look, I'll leave as soon as I can but I need you to help me. My brother's in danger as well and he doesn't know it. He won't listen to Grey Wind and it's going to get him killed!'_

Big Brother's human wasn't listening to him? What idiocy was that?! Nymeria actually growled at such a thought. A Dire Wolf knew when there was danger and who was the cause of such, their senses had saved her and her pack quite a few times from human hunters who wanted to harm them. What fool would ignore such knowledge?! Was this human not from her lands?! He should know better!

 _'Please Nymeria.'_ Quiet One pleaded inside her mind.  _'Our brothers need our help, I can't save them where I am.'_

And so he wished to endanger her instead? Her and her pack who wouldn't survive a month without her to keep an eye on them, to curb their stupidity? No. Not for the Quiet One, not even for Big Brother or White Brother. She would not risk the life she had built here for a bunch of stupid humans who should have known better than to ignore her brother's warnings. 

 _'ARYA IS THERE!'_ She stopped in her tracks. _'She's headed there right now! When the killing starts she'll be right in the middle of it! What if someone realises who she is, Nymeria? What happens then?'_

Arya...Wild Girl...her human was headed that way? To the Large Stone House where smoke was rising and pig, lamb and other meats were roasting? Where the awful stringy sounds that humans liked was whining from...she was headed there? She wanted to ignore it, another ploy by the Quiet One to make her risk herself for humans...but she had felt Wild Girl, felt her distress the night before, knew she was close and going north. 

If she went there and the killing started...and if she got caught up in it...

A bark from one of her little ones caught her ear and she stared down at them, they were curious about her. As curious as the day she'd found them, lost and alone, their pack murdered by humans just as humans had ordered done to Sister. She'd taken them in, then others and more and more and more. Her pack, to protect and care for...just like her Wild Girl...

Huffing once, she prowled over and licked the two nearest to her before nudging them on. Silly little things, fully grown and yet so stupid, she'd been smarter than them when she was a pup. 

All right, fine, if Quiet One was going to insist on endangering her pack, she'd give him something to think about. Then off she went, calling for her little ones to follow her, racing through the forest. Deeper and deeper she ran, every so often subtly attempting to shrug him out of her but he held firm; he was determined, no question there, but if Nymeria could just get him out then there was no need to risk anything...no luck.

_'Nymeria, where are we going?'_

He'd see, soon enough he'd see exactly why she wouldn't risk fighting humans in such large numbers. The den was in sight, two of her larger sentries watching the trees for anything that didn't smell like pack. Good boys, she'd trained them well. Upon seeing her approach they parted to let her and her little ones through, allowing her entrance to the den. It was a massive clearing where trees had once stood, now a home for Nymeria and all wolves who had been hunted by humans. And in the centre, surrounded by a score of tiny little pups that one of the mothers had given birth to a week before, was her entire reason to never risk this peace.

 _'...What?'_ Ah, so even the Quiet One could be surprised. Good to know that, despite his power over her, he was still just another human.  _'But she was...Father...Robb wrote...how?'_

The large wolf looked up from her little retinue to observe Nymeria, sniffing the air and clearly smelling something was off about her. She just huffed back, not her fault she smelled of magic right now. 

For a while, the Quiet One finally started doing what his name implied of him...and then he blurted out the name the humans had given her sister.  _'Lady?!'_

* * *

Something was wrong with Sister, Lady could smell it on her the moment she returned with both her little wolves trailing her like the lovesick little pups they'd been when she rescued them. The whole pack backed up at her arrival save for Lady and the little pups that continued to roll around and tug at her tail and underbelly, the sweet things. Strictly speaking, being the largest, they were both the Alphas of the pack but everyone deferred to Sister on just about everything, not that she minded; she wasn't a hunter or a tracker, she was much more at home looking after the pups that the bitches popped out this time of year. 

Rarely did she step up to inquire after the actions of her sister; this, she feared, was one of those times. Pushing up onto her paws, she stepped forth intent to take another sniff of Sister when suddenly there was a rush of her senses and before she knew it Sister was in her face, snarling furiously.

Terrified, Lady jumped back. Why was Sister angry with her? She'd looked after the pack whilst she was gone, just like always, protected the little ones. Why did Sister growl? Was she going to send her away? No. Please, don't send her away, she loved it here, she wasn't big and strong like Sister, she couldn't hunt a thing without Sister. She whimpered and dropped down on her belly in front of the angry wolf - please, please don't send her away.

 _'Lady...'_  Who was that?! Where did it come from? Lady didn't dare move, not whilst Sister was this angry, but shouldn't they be watching for humans? And then a wave of sadness ran through her that she was quite sure was not her own, sadness and shock.  _'How? Robb wrote that Father had been forced to kill you.'_

Father? Did the voice mean her Red Girl's Alpha? Such a sweet girl, her human, she missed her the most of all her old life. But Alpha had been clear, she had to hide. The mean golden human's mother had wanted her dead and the Stag Man wasn't going to stop it. 

She'd heard it all from where she'd been chained up, away from her Red Girl and Sister's Wild Girl. Sister had already been sent away, she was alone...it was scary. She hadn't been so scared since Mother had been killed by the Monster. Red Girl's Alpha had appeared then, sharp metal in hand, and she'd known; Lady was going to die. She'd pleaded with him, whimpered up at him not to do it, don't take her away from her Red Girl, she needed her. 

Alpha had just held her close, brought up his sharp metal...and cut through the leather around her neck. 

"You must run, Lady. Do you understand?" He didn't believe she could but he had told her anyway, Alpha had been an odd human like that. "Run into the woods where they can't find you. You won't survive alone, find your sister, look after one another. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

He'd let her go then and she ran, deep into the trees, away from her Red Girl and the walks and the comforts, away from everything she knew until the things she saw were nothing but green and brown. At once she started calling for Sister, Alpha said she wouldn't survive alone and she believed him - Alpha was Alpha, if he didn't know the way of things who did? - but after the first day of calling she didn't appear. 

Day after day, she ran and called, and day after day Sister did not appear. Soon she began to lose hope, she was hungry and alone. She needed to eat. 

But she was a terrible huntress. All her brothers and Sister had gone on hunts but Red Girl always kept her close, didn't want her 'getting dirty doing those silly things' because it 'wasn't right of a proper lady.' But she wasn't a lady, she was a wolf...and she didn't know how to hunt. Her first attempt was a miserable failure, and the next and the one after that. 

By the time she did get food in her belly she had been starving, and it almost got her killed. It had been one of those loud clucking birds that got to live in strange wooden boxes. There were so many of them though, surely the humans wouldn't mind if she took one. But the birds were so loud and when she finally caught one the humans were awake, the male having gotten a weapon and she was forced to run back into the trees.

The human gave chase though and managed to hit her with one of those flying wooden claws, right in her hind leg. Oh but it had hurt. The human had stood over her, once again sharp metal raised over her. And this time Lady was sure she would die, lost and alone with no one to howl for her...her Red Girl so far away and her pack...she didn't know where her pack was. She didn't want to die, not like this...

And then suddenly the human was wrenched away, himself now howling in pain. There was a crunch and a smell of copper...and then there was a wolf standing over her, a wolf that smelled of pack. Sister had found her. Sister and her wolves.

That was how their pack began, Sister taking her back to her den and helping her back to health. Then she hunted and brought her food to recover her strength, and then together they had tried to get home. But time after time, humans stopped them. Why were humans stopping them? They were just trying to get back to where they belonged, their true den. It made Sister angry though and soon she started killing them. 

Lady wanted no part in that, humans were almost as scary as the Monster. 

And then humans started fighting and killing each other, slaughtering each other in the fields. One time she thought she'd smelt Big Brother on one of the bodies but surely he wouldn't do such things. But with all the killing the way home was blocked, so she and Sister found this very clearing where they could stay, with all the wolves that she and Sister had found along the way.

Soon it was as if she'd lived no other life, they established a new order to this tree land where the wolves ruled supreme; Sister and all wolves fit to hunt would go off and find food, warding off any humans that got too close, whilst Lady and the whelping mothers remained here with the pups. Sometimes she ventured to the edge of the trees to see the fields but she never stayed long, humans were always close by, besides she found much more joy in looking after the little pups and could imagine that she was Mother who had loved them all so much. But she would never be Mother. Mother was brave and strong, Mother had fought for them. Mother had died for them. She would never be like that, Lady wasn't any of those things. All she would do is get herself killed.

 _'_ _Oh, Lady.'_ That other presence was back, had it been seeing her life? Could it do that? Another wave of grief came upon her, from this other she imagined.  _'I'm so sorry. No one knew...'_

Of course not, that was the point, she would have been killed if anyone knew she was alive. And why was it sorry? What had it done? Honestly, it sounded like White Brother, always taking the blame for things he couldn't help. Didn't feel like White Brother though, similar but not quite right.

_'It's Jon, Lady. Remember me?'_

Jon...The Quiet One? White Brother's human? Red Girl hadn't talked about him much, always kept away from him...she wasn't sure she liked that, it meant she couldn't be with Sister and White Brother as much. How was he in her head? 

There was another warning growl from Sister, was this what was bothering her? Now that Lady sniffed, Sister did smell normal again. Where had that odd scent gone? Was it on her now? Is that what Sister didn't like? 

_'Lady, I need your help. Grey Wind's in trouble.'_

Grey Wind? Big Brother? How could he be in trouble? He was the Big One, the one the pack had always followed when they had doubts, even Sister and Wild Brother had listened to him...sometimes. No, Big Brother was fine. 

 _'Lady, please.'_ The Quiet One pleaded, sounding truly afraid for some reason.  _'If you and Nymeria don't do something, my brother and yours will die tonight.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I think I'll leave it there. Yes, I'm a bastard. I'm also an asshole who's not going to tell you how it's all gonna go down.
> 
> Do you know how weird it is to write in the perspective of an animal? Dire Wolves are intelligent creatures but you still need to know where to draw the line and it's so hard to work out where that is. Might rewrite bits of this later down the line.
> 
> And yes, Lady's alive. Because I say so. Read the tags people. Canon? What's that? Unrealistic? I just tossed Jon back in time fifteen years to fix a ton of shit. Are you really gonna nitpick now?
> 
> So just to explain the dynamics of Nymeria's pack, though I suppose it's Nymeria's and Lady's pack now: Nymeria's the breadwinner, Lady keeps the hearth going and looks after the children...did I just LGBTQ Dire Wolves?
> 
> So, will Jon succeed in convincing Lady and Nymeria to storm the Twins? If they do, will they succeed? Will Robb live? Will I toss a coin to decide?
> 
> You probably don't want to hear the answer to that last one...ta-ta~!


	8. Bread & Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come, readers. Let us enjoy a merry ol' wedding.

** Catelyn **

The drums were pounding, pounding, pounding, and her head with them. Pipes wailed and flutes trilled from the musicians’ gallery at the foot of the hall; fiddles screeched, horns blew, the skins skirled a lively tune, but the drumming drove them all. The sounds echoed off the rafters, whilst the guests ate, drank, and shouted at one another below. Walder Frey must be deaf as a stone to call this music. Catelyn sipped a cup of wine and watched Aegon ‘Jinglebell’ Frey prance to the sounds of  _Alysanne._  At least she thought it was meant to be  _Alysanne._  With these players, it might as easily have been  _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._

Outside the rain fell, it had blown in from the North as evening fell, but within the Twins the air was thick and hot. A fire roared in the hearth and rows of torches burned from iron sconces on the walls. Yet most of the heat came off the bodies of the wedding guests, jammed in so thick along the benches that every man who tried to lift his cup poked his neighbour in the ribs.

Even on the dais they were closer than Catelyn would have liked. She sat between her Uncle Brynden, the Blackfish, and Lord Roose Bolton and had gotten a good whiff of both. She loved her Uncle, let it never be said otherwise, but the man drank as if Westeros was about to run short of wine and sweated it all out under his arms. Lord Bolton had a kinder smell to him, yet no more pleasant, and ate far less than herself.

Not that she could blame him, the wedding feast was all leek, pike and stringy beef, the crowning achievement being the jellied calves' brains that threatened to turn Catelyn's stomach. A poor fair to set before a king, yet Robb ate it uncomplaining and her brother was too caught up in his pretty new bride to pay much attention.

"He complained about this marriage the entire ride from Riverrun." She muttered to her Uncle, shaking her head in wonder at Edmure's attitude as he snuck another chaste kiss upon poor little Roslin Frey's lips. "And now look at him."

"The Gods love to reward a fool." Brynden said in way of explanation, smirking some at her chastising words that followed. "What? He's my nephew, I love him, and he's a damn fool."

She couldn't deny it, Edmure was at the best of times a braggart, a capable commander when it suited him, and it had cost Robb's war effort. The catastrophe of the Stone Mill had ruined any chance of cutting off Tywin Lannister's most vicious weapon, Gregor Clegane, was still not forgotten within the Northern host. Their chance to surround and kill that beast lost because her brother wanted some glory. 

 _And now here we are._ Catelyn ruminated as she looked upon the seat of honour again.  _Edmure married to Lord Frey's secret gem. The woman my son could have had if not for..._ No, she would not go down that road, Robb had made his feelings regarding her opinion there abundantly clear. He was sat with his wife, Talisa of some family or other from somewhere in Essos, whispering certain explanations here and there. He'd be doing that for the rest of his life, no doubt, now that they had a child on the way.  _We could have sewn this offence back together so much faster if not for that._

It was Jon Snow all over again.

But it was what it was.

A serving girl passed them by with a wine jug, offering it to their table. Uncle Brynden took a high helping but Roose Bolton placed his hand atop his cup, his message clear. The girl tipped her head respectfully and carried on. He'd been doing that all night, no wine, no mead...

"Don't you drink, Lord Bolton?" She asked him.

"Never do, My Lady." He replied in his whispery voice. "Dulls the senses."

That got a laugh out of Brynden, "That's the point." He stated, taking another healthy gulp of the stuff before carrying on. "Didn't you marry one of these Frey girls?"

He did? That was news to her. Still it made a certain amount of sense, better to placate Lord Walder as much as possible if they hoped to gain his men, Casterly Rock wouldn't fall without the Frey reinforcements.

"Aye." Lord Bolton answered her uncle's question, with something approaching an amused smirk as he continued. "Lord Walder let me choose any of his granddaughters and promised me the girl's weight in silver as a dowry. So now I have a fat young bride."

His conclusion had Brynden scoffing in mirth, emphasised Catelyn told herself by the amount of wine he'd already consumed, whilst she maintained a threaded smile for appearance's sake. "I hope she makes you very happy."

"Well," Roose murmured with the lightest of shrugs, "she's made me very rich."

Such talk often reminded her just how fortunate she had been with her own husband. Ned Stark had married her for duty, not gold or glory or passion. It wasn't the marriage songs were sung of or what every young maid dreamed of...but it had turned out to be the best union she could ever have asked for. Brandon had been the passionate one who girls would throw themselves at, herself included, but Ned had something he never did: Ned was kind, and in that kindness he held respect. With that respect they built their marriage, through triumphs and mistakes, success and failure, and all of it they did together. 

Would that he had lived, her kind Ned.

The night wore on. Robb danced with each of Lord Walder's girls, with Edmure’s bride and the eighth Lady Frey, with the widow Ami and Roose Bolton’s wife Fat Walda, with the pimply twins Serra and Sarra, even with Shirei, Lord Walder’s youngest, who must have been all of six. Catelyn could only hope this would satisfy the Lord of the Crossing or if he would find offence in all the other daughters and granddaughters who had not had a turn with the king.

"Your sisters dance very well." She said to Ser Ryman Frey, trying to be polite.

He made no such attempt, sweat trickling down his cheek into his beard as he took a swallow of wine. "They're aunts and cousins."

 _Sour man,_ Catelyn couldn't help thinking, his disposition made worse by being in his cups. Everyone was drinking, the Late Lord was harsh with his food but there was no stinting on the wine, it flowed as fast as the river the Frey house was built upon. The Greatjon was already roaring drunk, Walder's son Merret Frey matching him for every cup though his half-brother Whalen lay passed out between them having tried to keep up. She would have preferred Lord Umber remain sober like Patrek Mallister and Dacey Mormont but telling the Greatjon not to drink was like telling a man not to breathe for a few hours.

"Well." Her uncle said presently, standing from his seat quite unsteadily, "I need to go find a tree to piss on." 

And with that most gallant of farewells he stepped out of the hall. Would that Catelyn could find an equal excuse to step out, the heat and smoke and noise was making her sick.  _A few more hours._ She told herself, taking a refilled cup of wine to her lips.  _A few more hours and the worst will be over._ By this hour tomorrow Robb would be marching his way back into the Westerlands with fresh allies and winning another battle. Strange, how the siege and hopeful seizure of Tywin Lannister's ancestral home seemed almost a relief in comparison to a wedding. 

Above the din of drink and drums and Jinglebell's bells came a sudden snarling as two dogs fell upon each other over a scrap of meat. They rolled across the floor, snapping and biting, as a howl of mirth went up. Someone doused them with a flagon of ale, and they broke apart. One limped toward the dais. Lord Walder’s toothless mouth opened in a bark of laughter as the dripping wet dog shook ale and hair all over three of his grandsons.

The sight of the dogs made Catelyn wish once more for Grey Wind, but Robb’s Dire Wolf was nowhere to be seen. Lord Walder had refused him entry into the hall, citing his having a taste for human flesh. Robb had protested of course, stating his Wolf was no threat to any whilst he was present, but Lord Frey had been implacable. "Have your wolf or have your wedding, sire." He'd said. "You'll not have both."

And so Grey Wind had been locked up in one of the stables. Robb had been furious, but he had ceded, nonetheless. Frankly she wished he hadn't, that he'd reminded Lord Walder who was King and who was Vassal. This farce of a wedding, slight upon slight, all for a few thousand men. They needed the men of course, but at the expense of their dignity? 

But that was the beast of diplomacy, Catelyn supposed, and House Frey had grown fat on it.

** Robb **

It was with great relief that he finally led a dance with a woman other than a Frey; Dacey Mormont, Lady Maege's eldest and heir to Bear Island. Instead of a hauberk that he'd seen her in for most of the campaign, tonight she wore a simple dress. Tall and willowy, he remembered her being one of his first fantasies as a little boy...and then she'd thrashed him in the training yard, upon which time she became Arya's greatest hero. Proof that a woman could do anything a man could do and, unlike a man, she could still look good doing it.

"Any word from your mother yet?" He asked as they turned around the hall.

"Not yet." She replied, "The Crannogmen have never been easy to find, worse so in times of war." 

 _Here's praying they reach them soon then._ Robb had sent Maege Mormont to meet with Lord Howland Reed. With her she carried a most important document that, regardless of how things turned out, had to be delivered safe and sound: his Last Will and Testament. There wasn't much to be given, he'd lost Winterfell, Bran and Rickon were dead, Arya may as well be, and Sansa was a captive of the Lannisters. In such a situation he needed an heir and, whilst Talisa was with child, he couldn't afford to chance it. He needed someone who knew the North. 

He needed Jon.

Mother had been against it, but who else was there? His child was not yet born, at which time of course they would be first in line to succeed him but until then Jon Snow was the only one he could trust with the North. And so, acting as King, Robb had legitimised him. If anything happened to him, Lord Reed would see that message made its way to Castle Black and bring Jon home.

"All these ladies you've danced with, yet your wife has yet to take a turn." Dacey commented presently, smiling some as she glanced over at his seat where his wife conversed with Ryman Frey about some such thing. "Could it be she does not know the steps?"

That was  _exactly_ why, it actually surprised Robb that the Late Lord Frey had yet to ask that 'favour' of him. He'd done everything else in his power to insult him tonight, perhaps he was holding that in for reserves in case some magical slight suddenly made itself known. However, Talisa was his wife, his Queen, and he would have no such words spoken of her. Besides, they had time.

"She is in a delicate condition, Dacey." He went by way of explanation, this one time aware that his lack of formalities would not get an odd look - Dacey despised being called 'Lady.' 

That attitude made it known as she let out a small, but still very unladylike, snort. "'Delicate' he calls it. The woman's pregnant, Your Grace, not dying. Just because she has a little bump in her belly, now she can't walk?"

"That 'little bump' just happens to be your future King or Queen." He reminded her lightly as they came back around towards the seats, the music dying down some though it would surely pick up again in a second...and most like not  _The Bear and the Maiden Fair,_ no matter how boisterously Lord Umber sang for it. "Let's try to protect that legacy some, shall we?"

"Oh of course." The Maiden Bear acquiesced, mocking obedience in her eyes and she rolled them at her young King. "Gods forbid the woman has any fun before she's too big to walk, it's all about the legacy now. I understand." Glancing back at the crowd though, her smile dropped to a frown and he noted how she observed the numerous Freys jotted around the walls. "You know, if you really wanted her safe, you should have kept your Wolf with you."

"He's seen too much battle." He replied readily, knowing this would come up sooner or later. "Better that he stayed outside, away from the guests. Walder Frey's upset enough with me as it is."

She just 'hmm'd to that before suddenly taking the lead of their dance and slowly leading him back to his chair. "In that case then, better a Young Wolf looking after the pup than no wolf at all." 

And before he knew it he was plopped back down in his seat beside his wife who couldn't hold back a laugh at how he'd been basically manhandled away from the dance. Bloody Mormonts. Can't live without them and damn it if they didn't let you forget it. She didn't even have the decency to grant him a farewell bow, just a smirk before offering Talisa a polite 'Your Grace' and shoved off again.

"How in the world did you end up marrying me and not that amazing woman?" Talisa asked immediately, admiring eyes following Dacey back to her own seat. "She rides with you into battle, dances with you in castles, and tells you what to do whilst looking amazing doing it. It'd make people wonder who's Queen."

 _Oh, now wouldn't that have made Mother happy._ He couldn't deny a match with a Mormont would have been a union no one would have complained over, even if it had snubbed the Freys. But then, would that have made a difference? He would have still snubbed them, would still have had to make his apologies...no, there was nothing for it. It was what it was.

Besides, Dacey could do better than the King Who Lost the North, Talisa could do better, they all could. A look around the hall saw Mother declining the invitation to dance by yet another Frey and returning to her conversation with her neighbour. "My mother sits alone with Roose Bolton, I should rescue her."

To that, Talisa just gave the pair a cursory stare. "Your mother is less in need of rescue than any woman I've ever met."

"Be kind." He chided her lightly, though unable to hide his own smile at the statement. "She's finally starting to like you."

"And I like her." She admitted, the same admiration in her voice for Dacey now carrying for Catelyn Stark who had tried to keep them apart. "But if she had her way I'd be back in Volantis, playing my harp, and you would be sitting over there..." A nod to the married couple had his eyes looking upon his uncle, "eating blackberries out of Roslin Frey's hands."

...Well when she put it like that. "Perhaps I've made a terrible mistake."

There was a gasp from his side and a flurry of movement, a moment later his hand shot up and gently clutched the hand that was raised to knock his head in. "Striking your King is an act of treason."

She just shot him a raised eyebrow back. 'Oh?' That look said. 'And what is this King going to about it?'

Oh, she wanted to know did she? This was why he'd married her and not Dacey, Gods the fire this woman lit in him! He was already leaning in to start showing her just what he was going to 'do' about her treasonous acts. It looked like she'd let him too, but at the last second Talisa caught hold of him and pushed him back.

"No don't." Now it was her turn to be chiding, though there was some level of mocking at this whole affair as she went on, stroking his bearded cheek. "Don't insult them."

 _I insult him every second I speak to you, what does it matter?_ But he'd let it go, for now. The sooner this farce was over the sooner he could see to righting his cheeky wife on important matters of state.

"Your Grace!" Speak of the Others.

The music, if it could be called that, finally let up at the sound of Lord Walder's voice and the hall went silent save for the odd huff from the dogs. The old man's cloudy eyes met his and he went on. "The Septon has prayed his prayers, some words have been said, and Lord Edmure has wrapped my sweetling daughter in a fish cloak, but they are not yet man and wife."

 _Ah,_ that bit. Robb could already see his wife looking to him in askance, considering the nature of their own wedding this part of it never came up. Well it had to happen, hopefully she would understand once he'd had a chance to explain it. 

"A sword needs a sheathe!" Lord Walder went on, gaining several knowing laughs and jeers to accompany his own as he went on. "And a wedding needs a bedding! What does my sire say?"

A glance was shared with his mother, the opinion of a woman on this would have been appreciated. No help came though save a look that clearly said, 'get it over with, for the girl's sake at least.' Maybe that's all he needed to see really, what more could a woman tell him? Certainly more than the drunk idiots behind him, a score of them being Frey's own get banging their cups against the tables, striking up the chant "To bed! To bed! To bed!"

The girl to be bedded had gone white. Of course, she'd never lain with a man. Mother hadn't when she married Father, it had to be something of a concern for them. Luckily for him, Talisa knew her own body when she had given herself to him. Talisa who was once again trying to figure out what in all Seven Hells was going on. Soon, he'd explain it as soon as they got it over with.

So decided, Robb stood from his chair and strode ahead some, not in the way but still so people could see him. "If you think the time is right, Lord Walder, then by all means..." a smile for the girl's sake as much as for appearances. "Let us bed them."

A roar of approval greeted his pronouncement. Up in the gallery the musicians took up their pipes and horns and fiddles again and began to play...well it could have finally been  _The Bear and Maiden Fair but_ knowing this lot it was just as like to be  _Jenny of Oldstones._

The guests swarmed the dais, the drunkest in the forefront as ever. The men and boys surrounded Roslin and lifted her into the air whilst the maids and mothers in the hall pulled Edmure to his feet and began tugging at his clothing. He was laughing and shouting bawdy jokes back at them. "Careful now ladies!" Was the one Robb caught, "Once you let that monster free, there's no caging him up again!"

"Give this little bride to me!" There was the Greatjon, finally making his presence known, shoving through the throng of men to toss little Roslin over his shoulder. "Look at this little thing! No meat on her at all!"

Custom would dictate that Robb join in...but a look at the shocked and somewhat appalled look of his own wife stayed him. He would have enough explaining to do as it was without adding  _that_ to the list. So instead he just joined in with the applause of the rest of the hall, his eyes catching Dacey's who had also stayed out of the bedding. She just shot him a stapled grin before indicating the disappearing bawdy host, he just shook his head back. Nope, he wasn't getting himself into any deeper shit than he already had.

"Poor girl." He just made out Mother's voice. Seemed she hadn't joined the merriment either, not that he'd expected her to. Father had taken her heart with him when he died, she'd never lie with a man again. 

"Every bride suffers the same." It should be a credit to his hearing that he made out Lord Bolton's words, would it kill the man to speak at a higher volume? "I'm sure you endured yours with grace."

Her response to a comment such as that was lost in another crow for joy as one of Roslin's shoes was tossed aside, but Robb's eyes remained on the pair of them. They were awfully close together, Mother and Roose Bolton.  _If he has designs on her..._  Would it be very kingly if he walked right over and broke the Leech Lord's jaw in front of all these guests? Probably not, so he tore his gaze away from them to continue watching the procession that was now just about to vanish from the hall.

"That is a very strange custom." Talisa's voice in his ear pulled him to her. She seemed...curious. Well at least she wasn't cutting him open with her healer's tools...yet. 

"I..."  _Approach this carefully, Stark. You're in enough trouble regarding women as it is._ "I suppose it does seem strange from a foreigner's perspective."

"It seems normal to you?" 

"It's tradition." That answer didn't seem to win him any favours, in fact she seemed less impressed with his answer than with the act itself. How to explain it...ah! There it was. "Without the bedding ceremony there's no real proof that the Lord and Lady consummated their marriage."

There, reasonable, explaining of traditions. Nothing untoward or belittling said...so why was she laughing at him? 

"Oh, but there are other ways." She told him with a smile, taking his hand and resting it upon her belly where the telling bump of his child lay.

And there it was, the fluttering in his chest. Despite everything - the loss of his brothers, the destruction of Winterfell, Theon's betrayal, Sansa's marriage to the Imp - it all washed away in the face of that, leaving only joy...and a healthy helping of terror. What was it Father said when Mother was in labour with Arya? 'Lads, if you're not pissing yourself with fear over the prospect of fatherhood there's something terribly wrong with you.' 

 _Well, good to know there's nothing wrong with me then._ Robb thought to himself as he lifted his excited eyes off the bump to meet the same look in his Queen's. Time to be brave. Putting on a smile he asked the big question. "Boy or girl?"

She remained quiet for a moment, collecting her thoughts maybe or wondering which one she thought he would want? No, that didn't match her nature. At last she answered honestly, "I don't know...but, if it's a boy, I know what we should name him."

"Oh, do you?" More treason from his cheeky wife. Just how much correction was she looking for when he got her alone? "It seems to me the father should have some say in his son's naming."

"Eddard."

He froze. Eddard Stark? Father's name? He'd never even considered...

But Talisa was smiling an excited, knowing smile at him. "Don't you want to teach little Ned Stark how to ride horses?" 

"I..." The image of a little boy with her colouring and his eyes suddenly ran through Robb's mind, outdoing Jon and Arya without any trouble at all. All whilst he and his wife stood from the keep, watching him play just as Father had done. "I do."

It hit him then, he wanted it. More than land or a crown or a title or any sort of duty...he wanted to be a father. In a few moons' turn he would be, and this amazing, glorious woman was the one who gave him that chance. 

He kissed her, right in the sight of his mother, Roose Bolton and Walder Frey. Let them look, he wanted to say, let them see their King happy for a change. Let him be a man who loved his woman and would love his Little Ned until the end of his days.

He didn't hear a man walk by and close the doors of the hall, all he cared about was Talisa. He didn't care for whatever terrible rendition of whatever song the band was playing now, all that mattered was his child. Even the wolves howling at the moon were nothing to him now. All he needed was her, it was all he would ever need again.

Everything was going to be alright. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And it's so easy when you're evil.  
> This is the life, you see  
> The Devil tips his hat to me
> 
> I do it all because I'm evil  
> And I do it all for free"
> 
> Okay, here's a fact: Every time I update, it's because the chapter that comes after the one posted has been finished, meaning I've already written up what comes next. Why am I telling you this? Because, if this story hits 10000 Hits before the day is out, I'll post it right then and there.
> 
> It's Noon where I am. Twelve hours to go.
> 
> Deep breath...


	9. We Stand Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something the Gods can't forgive...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10,000 Hits achieved.

** The Big Brother **

Something was wrong. He'd smelled it the moment the Big Stone House That Crossed the Water had come into sight. Grey Wind didn't like the people here, not when Big Boy had brought them here the first time and not now when they came back. That human on the horse had smelled wrong and got too close to his human and so he'd gotten rid of him. That made the other humans of this bad place angry and tried to hurt him, not that Big Boy would ever let that happen.

Instead he'd been left in this big wooden box where they kept horses, all his protests ignored. Why was Big Boy ignoring him? They had hunted together, bled and killed together. Was he not a good friend? Were they not pack? These people were dangerous and bad, he'd smelled it on them. 

He'd tried to get the attention of Big Boy's human friends next; they weren't happy with him being left here either just because the old human who should be dead said so. Big Boy was the Alpha here, surely he was the one who should be followed. But they'd done as the old human said and left him here. 

After that Grey Wind just called for anyone to listen to him, so long as they weren't the bad people, but all his calls went unheard over that horrible noise coming from the Stone House. And when that awful sound went away, he was drowned out by the din of loud humans laughing and yelling and singing.

Grey Wind would have been frustrated if he wasn't so scared. Big Boy was in trouble, his mate and the pup inside her were in trouble, and no one was listening to him. Why were humans so stupid?!

But he kept trying, nudging against the wood box which remained firm. It didn't open that way, he knew, but if he could just shove it enough times maybe it would fall open. Again and again he tried to free himself, calling out for help, but the bad people kept prowling about, feeding Big Boy's humans more of that bad drink that made them stupid.

Would that his pack were still here. White Brother would have kept all those bad people away, Wild Sister and Wild Brother would have had him out in a flash whilst Grey Brother and Sweet Sister would have whipped these fools back into shape. They weren't here though; Grey Wind was alone. For the first time since he left home it dawned on him just how lonely he was. He didn't like it. Wolves weren't meant to be alone. 

The awful noise ended again. 

"Thank the Gods." One bad man said to another as they walked by his box. "Thought that racket'd never end."

"Just stick the fish in the dungeon and let's get on with it, I say." Said the other, spitting on the ground as he went to serve another of Big Boy's humans. They were too stupid right now to understand what they were talking about so what did it matter? 

It scared Grey Wind even more that they would talk like that. Whatever bad thing was about to happen, it would happen soon. He had to get out! His human needed him!

And then he heard it. The song those humans in red and shiny yellow sang all the time.

 _"'And who are you' the proud lord said,_  
_'That I must bow so low?_  
_Only a cat of a different coat_  
_That's all the truth I know...'"_

No. No! Not the Bad Song! Not here! That meant these bad people were with the evil people who killed Big Boy's Alpha and hurt his sisters. Scared and angry, Grey Wind resumed his shoving on the door. He had to get out. Had to get out! HAD TO GET OUT! 

More barking, calling and yes, he even went so far as to whimper. Now wasn't a time for dignity, he had to get someone to listen. Someone had to listen. Please let them listen! Their Alpha was under attack! Their Alpha needed help!  _Please listen to him!_

Fear pushed him further, but it wasn't enough. And so, with no other reason save pure desperation, Grey Wind let out a long loud howl. His call rang out, through the Big Stone House That Crossed the Water and over the rioting mass of stupid humans who should help their Alpha, deep into the fields and the forests. All the way out it travelled, into darkness...

** The Hound **

If there was ever a time when a man was stupider, Sandor Clegane had yet to see it beyond a wedding. They rode through on the cart without so much as a peep from the guards, seeing as they were so fucking drunk. Tywin Lannister could march on them right now and the fuckers would probably pour him a drink.

Still, worked for him. Sooner he could drop off this Stark Bitch with her idiot brother and their cunt mother, sooner Sandor could go somewhere that people didn't want him to kill for them. No idea that was, but the world was a big place. It had to exist somewhere. He'd heard once that the Summer Islanders worshipped a fertility Goddess with sixteen tits. Cunts. And people wondered why slavers were alway raiding the  he'd place. Maybe he'd go there.

Further on the horse brought them, passed drinkers and wrestlers and tall-talkers and, of course, the whores. Where the fuck did Walder Frey get whores?  _Probably bred them himself, the rotten old letch._ But not matter, it kept the Stark men distracted and that was all that was needed to get them beneath the barbican of the Twins, Stark, Bolton, Tully and Frey banners all flying about with their shitty sigils. Fucking highborns. Put an animal on your shield and suddenly you're important? Never mind, it'd get him the gold he needed to get out of this Gods awful place so what did he really care?

Pulling the cloak over his face some more to hide his scars, he pulled the cart to a halt outside the portcullis as some guard of whatever group of cunts approached him. Unlike the Stark man, this one looked good and sober, just fucking wonderful.

The man held his torch up to get a look at him and it was all Sandor could do not to lean away, really didn't need the Bitch behind him to see him flinch now. "Where you goin'?"

"Got salt pork for the feast." He fed the same story as he'd used to get in.

"The feast is over."

Eh? Glancing up, he craned his ears to have a listen...nope music was still playing, and a shittier performance of  _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown_ he'd never heard, and this was from hearing the shit stuff Joffrey's mummers came up with for his nameday. "Doesn't sound like it's over."

"If I tell ya it's over, it's over." The guard told him shortly, torch pulling back a bit to show red teardrops stitched on his cloak - a Bolton man. Shit he was not in the mood for these flayers tonight. And where was that lot going? A bunch of sober chaps hurried around them and into the castle, all of them fully armed. You'd think they were prepping for a siege.

"Now turn this cart around" the Bolton man went on, "an' get the 'ell out of here."

"Got pickled pig's feet too, ser." No he didn't but something was off, something he didn't like, and it was threatening to take his pay away from him.

And now the flayed man really had had enough of him if the sneer was anything to go by. "Are you soft in the 'ead?! Turn this cart around!" 

 _Easy now._ Sandor told himself, better not to get worked up over it. Pulling this shit's head off would be such a sweet thing to do but then the other guards would be on him and then he really wouldn't get paid. Taking a breath, he got ready to try again...but then his ears caught the notes coming from the windows.

 _"'In a coat of gold, a coat of red_  
_A Lion still has claws_  
_And mine are long and sharp, My Lord,  
As long and sharp as yours...'"_

Fucking  _Rains of Castamere?_ At this wedding? Not good. Not fucking good at all. 

He was all set to turn back and head out, but then a massive howling suddenly sounded out from the keep which got all the guards looking that way. Robb Stark's wolf, probably. The fuck was it doing anywhere but at the boy king's feet? But that question didn't matter so much as the nature of that call.

Sandor knew that howling, he'd heard it any number of times from any number of wild animals in the woods; the sound of an animal that was cornered, had its back against the wall and knew it couldn't escape. A wild animal with nothing left to lose and so it would let out that last horrifying call before setting on the hunters with every breath in its body until they were all dead...or it was. 

"That fucking animal!" The annoying guard yelled, glaring back at the castle for a moment. "Sooner we get this done the better. Bloody Starks."

Fuck. It was a betrayal. No good sticking around here then, the Stark Bitch would be worth nothing to a Bolton. But oh, what she'd say about that. Getting ready for another bout of 'fun' with the girl, he turned around to tell her they were going. And was met with thin air.

Oh, of all the fucking stupid...!

Hang on. Now that he was looking back, the celebrations seemed to have stopped some. Had the backstabbing already begun? If it was he was stuck. Not the way he'd seen himself going out.

One such merry maker, who was suspiciously not so drunk as he should have been and again wearing full mail and that northern boiled leather, suddenly came running up to them. "We've been hit! Din’t see ‘em till they was on us! Must’a come from th’forest!"

"Whatchoo on about?" The guard asked his fellow turncloak. "Shouldn't'a been anythin' comin'! Lannister's with us now."

"Not Lannisters!" The man said, breathing hard, looking scared. "Wolves! Hundreds and hundreds of wolves!"

** Arya **

Even when she heard the stupid man say they couldn't come in hope had been beating in her heart. One of the benefits of travelling with a murderer was, sooner or later, he'd decide he hadn't murdered someone in too long and he'd get on with what he did best. So what if it got a man killed? He wasn't family. 

And then she heard the howling. In that instance, Arya felt a chill go up her spine even though there was enough heat coming off the army celebrating behind her to melt all the snows in the North. That hadn't been a victory howl or one of happiness...it had been filled with fear. She didn't know how she knew that, she just did. 

At once the awful feeling she'd been holding inside her came back with a vengeance, twisting and turning her belly until she all but fell out of the cart in her rush to get inside the Twins. Those men who rushed past them, full mail shirts and swords at their hips...why would anyone be that armed when a wedding was on? It didn't feel right at all and so she followed them, sneaking through the portcullis and then around the keep. 

Quiet as a shadow, her Dancing master had always told her, light as a feather. Arya had never tried so hard to be both in her life as she zipped from shadow to shadow, moving through the yard towards the next gate as quickly as possible. There were men drinking and laughing on a table set just in front of the stables, but from here she couldn't be sure if they were Stark men or not...she didn't like that she was already deciding not being from the North was a bad sign. But if they were, maybe she could get them to take her to Robb.

Then more men came out of the doors near the tower, Frey men most like - Theon Greyjoy once joked that all the men who served at the Twins came from Lord Frey's own seed. 'That's why he was late to the Trident' he'd said 'it took him that long to fuck enough girls and train up his army.' Mother had boxed his ears for that. But these men were ugly looking people, scowling and armed, as if a wedding was just as foul a thing as murder, they didn't look like soldiers at all. 

 _More like cutthroats._ Arya thought, her bad feeling growing the longer she watched them.  _Cutthroats like the one that tried to kill Bran._

At the sight of them, one of the men at the table raised his cup in greeting, a big dumb smile on his face. "Feast's over yet, is it?"

"Aye..." the ugliest of the ugly men said, hand slipping to his waist... "it's over."

And then his dagger was out and in the throat of the man on the table. His men were soon doing the same to the rest, one got his belly filled with steel whilst another was set upon by two at once, both holding him down whilst they repeatedly stabbed him to death. 

For a moment Arya was stunned silent. What had just happened? The Freys were her uncle's bannermen and those men had been her brother's. They were supposed to be allies. Why were they killing each other?

The bodies tossed aside, the ugliest man turned to shoot an ugly grin at his men. "Awright boys, most kills gets first turn at lil' Roslin when we're done. Least kills gets the ale."

With a hearty roar, the men all drew their swords and ran out of the castle where shouts and cries of a different kind were now filling the air, but Arya remained still. That couldn't have happened, she couldn't have just seen that happen! But her eyes showed her the truth, the flame from one of the hanging torches catching on one of the dead men's clothes: The Dire Wolf of Winterfell. Her Father's men, Robb's men. And Walder Frey's had just murdered them.

Her belly was twisting in every horrible manner and her tongue felt as if she'd licked some of the copper in Mikken's forge. She hated it,  _hated it,_ and wanted it to stop! 

But in the blood-filled silence, her ears could now hear another sound. A song...one she knew too well from running through the countryside with the Brotherhood Without Banners.

 _"'As long and sharp as yours.'_  
_And so he spoke and so he spoke,_  
_That Lord of Castamere_  
_But now the Rains weep o'er his hall..."_

Not here. Not that! How had the Lannisters gotten here?! How had any of them gotten into the Twins without Robb knowing it? Panic now took hold, Arya had to find him now! Had to get him out. Joffrey wouldn't want Robb to just die, he'd want him to suffer like he'd made Father suffer. And Mother...Gods, what would they do to Mother? 

There was a scraping of wood on earth, followed by a bang, and for one terrifying moment Arya thought she'd been spotted. Looking around she saw nothing, but then there was another bang coming from the stables, one of the doors shoving outwards before falling back, the plank across the latches keeping it from opening. Something was trying to get out. 

And then she heard the angry growl from within. A wolf's growl...Robb's Wolf, Grey Wind! If she could just get him out...the table. It had been turned over when the Frey men killed her brother's, it would hide her if she was careful. The noise outside was loud enough and the gloom hid her well.

 _Quiet as a shadow._ She darted forwards, kneeling behind the table. Grey Wind shoved against the door again, his head jumping up to look through the hole at the top and barked right at her. Had he seen her? If he knew it was her then they could look after each other, could help Robb!

There was another bout of clattering from inside the castle. More men came streaming out wearing even more armour than the first group, all of them holding crossbows. But these men didn't go to join the carnage outside, they all went to surround the stables. At their approach, Grey Wind pulled back and growled up at them angrily. He'd rip their throats out if he could.

 _But he can't._ She realised, her stomach tied in knots.  _He's trapped. They...they're going to kill him. Does that mean...is Robb already...?_

Death. It was the one and only God, Syrio said. And there was only one thing to be said to Death.  _Not today._

She was moving before she even realised it, hands scrabbling for something,  _anything,_ to use as a weapon. The ugly men had their crossbows, Grey Wind had nowhere to go...they would do it! She wasn't going to make it.

And then the group of five was a group of four. 

"The fuck?!" One of them shouted, only to grunt in shock as he too went down, forcing the other three to turn away from Grey Wind to confront this new arrival. But even Arya froze still at the sight of her brother's Wolf's rescuer: Large, grey fur, fixed yellow eyes...another Dire Wolf! 

"Where'd that come from?!" One of the three still standing shouted, all of them backing away from it. 

The Wolf took no interest in them however, turning its back on them and suddenly frantically scrabbling at the floor, digging the earth away as fast as it could to free its kin. Every so often it let out a bark to Grey Wind who knelt to bark back, trying to fit his nose through the small space between the earth and the stable door. 

Shock wore with disbelief in Arya's heart, her mind asking the same question as the Freys had. How could a Dire Wolf be here? There weren't any this far south, Shaggydog and Bran's Wolf were at Winterfell, Ghost was at the Wall with Jon, Lady was dead...it couldn't be...

"Nymeria?" 

"Fuck it!" One of the Frey men finally shouted, "Let’s just kill ‘em awredy!"

At his words, Grey Wind went back to growling uselessly at them but Nymeria continued digging. By now the other two had got back up and grabbed their crossbows, quarrels now pointed at her instead of her brother. And still Nymeria didn't turn. 

 _What are you doing, girl?!_ Had her time in the Riverlands made her stupid?! They were going to kill her and then Grey Wind too! 

Again, Arya's body was moving. Her hands went down to the floor again though her eyes never left the two trapped Dire Wolves, she couldn't figure out what was wrong with her Wolf but that didn't matter. Death would not claim another of the pack.  _Not today._

Something sharp caught her fingers, Arya didn't know what but she didn't care; if it was sharp it could kill. And she was going to kill them.

 _Calm as still water._ She shot forwards, breaking from the shadows. 

 _Strong asa bear._ Her feet left the floor as she leapt up onto the back of the nearest man.

 _Fierce as a wolverine!_ A vicious cry rang out from...somewhere, and her sharp tool buried itself into the man's neck even as he thrashed around trying to dislodge her. Now he cried out, hands reaching for his neck but she kept stabbing, kept...was that her shouting?

Hands finally latched onto her and she was tossed from the man, not that it made any difference she was savagely happy to see as the bloodied face of her kill fell flat into the mud. And then her head was singing as a fist smacked into her face.

"Fuckin' bitch!" Oh right, the other four.

Shaking her head Arya tried to get her bearings again, but she could barely hear Nymeria's digging behind her anymore. Her eyes were still working well enough and she could see all the remaining Freys glaring down at her.

Dizzy she might be, but the threat of meeting Death early pulled her somewhat to her senses, shaking her head once, twice, she came back to herself. She still had her weapon so she wasn't defenceless, Syrio's lessons beating in her head kept fear at bay, but it was her anger that focussed her. If these creatures were going to kill her she was at least going to kill them back. 

"Sneaky little bitch aintcha?" One Frey sneered, pulling a knife. "See this, bitch? This's what sneakin' gets ya!"

And then he lunged, only to start screaming as a massive grey paw suddenly smacked into his face, cutting through his eyes and nose. A growl from behind her told Arya all she needed, Nymeria was finally in the game as well.  _About bloody time, girl._

"Seven fuckin' 'ells! Jus' kill'em already!" Another Frey shouted, grabbing his crossbow and pointing it at them both, the other two following his lead. 

Those quarrels would have them both wounded before they could launch another attack, Arya knew this...but her anger kept her firm. She was going to free Grey Wind, she was going to find Robb and Mother, she was going to get as far away from here with all of them, back home where they belonged. But first, she was going to kill these traitors. She was going to kill them all!

"Say g'night bitch." The Frey man pulled another ugly grin, his friends following as they all put their fingers on the release. One misstep and it was over...

And then there was a whirlwind of dark grey, accompanied with snarling, screaming and blood.  _Another_ Dire Wolf had appeared, bigger and far more vicious, ripping the Frey men to pieces as if it was in three places at once. The ugly man was on the ground and trying to crawl away, his legs torn off at the knees, but the new Wolf just stalked after him, licking its chops. 

"The fuck..." The man kept whimpering, eyes staring up at the massive creature as it bore down on him "the  _fuck?!"_  

Its front paws landed on his chest, forcing him into the ground, drool dripping down onto his face...and suddenly Arya just knew, as if a hole she hadn't known was there had been filled. This Wolf wasn't new...it was  _hers._ Her Nymeria, strong and wild and free...and she was furious.

With a final snarl, the massive Wolf's jaw opened and dug itself into the whimpering Frey's neck. Whatever cries he'd tried to make they were immediately silenced as Nymeria gouged out most of his throat, turning his pleas for life into a gurgling mess, blood spurting out of his mouth and nose. He wouldn't last long. 

But Nymeria was clearly not feeling merciful as she turned her tail on him and padded back the stables. Arya could only stare up at her - she'd gotten so big! - afraid that if she looked away her Wolf would disappear as quickly as she'd returned to her. Her Wolf didn't stop though, stalking right past her with a fuming growl and quiet positively loomed over the other female Dire Wolf. Who was she anyway? 

The moment she asked herself that question did the answer smack itself in Arya's face...but she couldn't quite believe it. She died. Father killed her, he said so. But here was another Wolf, being growled and barked at by Nymeria, who then growled right back at her which seemed to throw the larger Wolf off. She regrouped however and barked angrily right in her face, but the smaller Wolf - Arya didn't dare name her in case she was wrong - stood her ground, almost puffing up her chest as if to say, 'you're not the boss of me, you messy thing!' 

That in itself sold it for her, in Arya's experience with Sansa, if you weren't at your sister's throat and vice versa then there was something wrong with the relationship. 

Their small quarrel was interrupted by the barking of their brother still trapped behind the stable doors, the smaller Wolf letting out a yelp and returning to her digging whilst Nymeria practically body-slammed the doors. Neither approach worked and they were wasting too much time, more Frey men had to be on the way. 

A growl from within the doors made the other Wolves back off and Grey Wind threw himself at the door again. There was a loud bang but the plank over the latches remained firm...the plank...

"Nymeria! L-..." Swallowing down the disbelief, Arya tried again, "Lady! Back up, let me try."

Lady heard her and retreated though Nymeria held out, energy burning out of every limb with the need to hurt something, however she finally tipped her head to one side and looked at her long and hard with her golden eyes. It was as if she was judging her...and at last she backed up as well. 

 _Thank you girl._ Arya remembered the stones she'd tossed at her Wolf to send her away, once this was over she'd spend the rest of her life making up for that. 

The plank was heavier than she thought, it would have to be to hold back a Dire Wolf, but she wasn't as skinny as she used to be. She pushed the wooden block with all her might...

"Oi! Whatchoo think you're doin?!" More Freys had come out of the main keep, swords drawing from their scabbards, but Arya didn't look around. She just pushed and pushed. There was a duet of angry growls from behind her and then there was the screaming of men. Keep pushing...nearly there!

_"Yes now the Rains weep o'er his hall  
And not a soul to hear..."_

"Cunt wolves! Kill them alread-gaauh!"

YES! The block fell from the latches, landing with a heavy thud on the earthen floor. There was a rumbling from within, as if the storm and rains all around them had become centred in this one tiny box of wood. Arya dove behind the table again just as another group of Freys, catching the dying screams of their fellows, came to see what was going on. If they'd brought crossbows they might have stood a chance. 

Somewhere in the storm, thunder rattled around the feast-turned-battlefield.

Suddenly the stable doors burst open and one of the men went down screaming as his arm turned red, Arya hadn't even seen Grey Wind move. A moment later Nymeria was at his side, downing another man, and what she thought might have been Lady jumped another but then another two started tearing the last one apart. For one amazing moment, Arya thought it was all her brothers' Wolves come South to mete bloody justice on these traitors. But no, there was no white wolf amongst them, and they were smaller, a yip from her side telling her also that Lady had not joined the attack. But where had they all come from, had Nymeria brought every wolf in Westeros here?

She wanted to ask, needed to know where her Wolf had been all this time. Lady was a hint but why didn't they go home? 

Her chance never came. The air was suddenly filled with another scream, not that of a wounded or dying soldier or a crying craven like Joffrey...it was higher, shriller...like Sansa's. 

At the sound of it Grey Wind's feast ended, his head turning on a swivel to stare up at the Keep where the music had been coming from but was now silent...save for that woman's scream. What was happening up there? Whatever it was, Robb's Wolf immediately abandoned his kill and raced for the Keep as if the Others themselves were on his back. A yip from behind her and suddenly Lady was rushing off too, the pack of smaller wolves following her. The three biggest trailed somewhat before a short barking from the remaining Dire Wolf sent them racing after the other two.

"Nymeria!" She was going to leave again, Arya could see it. She was going to rush off through these halls and then they might never see each other again. At the call her Wolf looked back, decisiveness written in her eyes. She was going and there was nothing that could stop her from ripping anything and everything that got in her way, certainly not some skinny little girl who once threw rocks at her. 

"Take me with you."

Nymeria stared at her a moment longer, as if weighing her plea...but then a call from ahead caught her attention, Lady had pulled back to call for her. That seemed to make up her mind as she didn't even spare Arya another glance, merely turned her tail and ran to join her pack which then disappeared into the bowels of the Twins.

_No. No please! Nymeria come back!_

Arya made to run after her, but before she got even a step forward a vice wrapped itself around her shoulder. She knew that grip, detested it, but even still she turned up to stare at the Hound in shock, how the hell had all those wolves, two of them Dire Wolves, missed him? 

He barely looked around at the array of mangled Frey bodies, nor the open stable door. "It's too late. We have to get away from here, now."

 _Get away?_ Through that? She could hear it, the cursing and dying and screaming outside the walls suddenly seemed louder now that the Wolves had left. Not to mention the sound of more wolf howls out there.

“We’re here!” she shouted. Her voice sounded thin and scared, a little girl’s voice. “Robb’s just in the castle, and my mother. The gate’s even open.”

There were no more Freys riding out.  _I came so far._

“We have to go get my mother.”

“Stupid little bitch.” His grip didn't waiver a smidge, the rain on his face making the burn marks look even uglier than usual. "You go in there, you won't come out. Maybe Frey will let you kiss your mother’s corpse.” 

"Nymeria's here. And Lady. I freed Grey Wind!" She'd gotten them all out, there was no way she could just abandon her family now!

"Good for them." The Hound grumbled, eyes turning to the mess again and obviously noting the bite marks. "Better to die fighting than locked in a cage. But I'm not done living yet." 

Now he advanced on her, crowding her back toward the upturned table that had kept her hidden and then protected her from the Freys now turned traitor. "Stay or go, she-wolf. Live or die. Your-"

Arya didn't let him finish, she spun away and leapt over the table, running for the second courtyard where Grey Wind had led the pack. The portcullis was coming down, but slowly. 

 _I have to run faster!_ The mud slowed her, churned by all the blood and rain the wolves had spilled around, but she pushed herself on.  _Run fast as a wolf!_

Behind her she could hear the chains of the drawbridge lifting, once that was up there was no escaping for anyone. Good, then the Hound wouldn't have a choice but to fight the Freys. He wanted money right? Get some by killing these bastards. There was also loud splashing coming that way too and looking back Arya saw him right behind her sending gouts of water with every stride. She saw his sword too, wet with blood and brains - of course he'd gotten in on the violence, murderers always did. That made her run faster. She ran faster than she had ever run before, her head down and her feet churning up the river, she ran from him as Mycah must have run.

His sword took her in the back of the head.

** The Thrall **

Seeing Arya again should have had him crying tears for joy...but amidst all this carnage, surrounded by death and traitors all Jon felt was fear. How had she ever gotten out of here? When she called Nymeria back and pleaded with her to take her with them he was all set to argue that very thing with the stubborn Wolf. But then he picked up another scent through her nose and looked beyond his little sister to see the imposing figure trudging towards her.

He didn't have his beard, or the limp Jon had known him for, but he did have a sword, armour, and he was marching on Arya. Not exactly the best image but if anyone could get his sisters through this sort of madness it would be Sandor Clegane. Then Lady called for them and he let the matter drop.

The hold he had on Nymeria was taxing him to the edge of his strength, every word he tried to convey sapped him further. He could feel his body crying out for its essence to return to it, not used to being left alone like this, but he couldn't. Not until Robb was safe. Thus, he saved what strength he had left and prayed he wouldn't need to make another jump.

This attack therefore was more Nymeria's design than his, that is after Lady had barked her into submission basically saying she was going to help Grey Wind with or without their pack. Not that it was a bad strategy, it had started out the way he would have liked: quietly and patiently. But then Grey Wind's cry had gone out, which caused Lady to break from Nymeria's side - frankly, he shared his surprise with the larger Wolf that she'd even come at all - and after that all hell broke loose. Even as they raced through the halls of the Twins, following Grey Wind's scent, Jon could still hear the wolves at the gate tearing apart any human that got in its way. 

Frankly he couldn't care less if Nymeria's pack killed every Bolton and Frey they found, less still if they got Roose Bolton and Walder Frey as well, but the Stark and Tully men now dying out there could have come in handy. Too late now though, and an argument with Arya's Wolf over the usefulness of human soldiers would probably tax their connection to breaking point.

_Come on, just hold on a bit longer._

There was growling up ahead and the scent of blood in his nose. Coming round a corner he saw the pack had brought down another handful of Freys, but one of their own had also fallen to an arrow in the eye. It wasn't one of Nymeria's little ones, but he could still feel her fury at the loss of one she considered her own. The race to catch up with Grey Wind became more frantic after that, following the trail of bodies, both men and beast, until they arrived at a large double door. The entrance to the great hall most like.

Locked. But he could smell the blood on the other side.

When Jon heard the music he'd been afraid, he knew what that had to mean; when he heard the woman's scream from below he'd known they were too late to save Robb's wife. Fear had been replaced in favour of terror after that. And now that terror was looking to become something far more dreadful if he was too late to do  _anything at all!_

Grey Wind was up on his hind limbs, pawing at the door along with Lady and all the surviving wolves, trying to force it open like he'd tried with the stable door. Much like then, the effort was fruitless. But they couldn't give up! Not now! They were so close! There had to be something, some other way in...but every time he tried to think of it, the damned Lannister song got in his head and it devolved back into the desire to rip every Frey apart! 

Wait...the Lannister song...it would have been played by a band...and the band would have been playing from the gallery!  _That's it!_

 _'Nymeria, we have to find a way up to the gallery!'_ It was a risk speaking to her, but the chance to help Robb outweighed his discomfort. Immediately he felt her disinclination to go with anything he suggested, and why should she? This raid had probably gotten her entire pack killed, but she had to listen to him now.  _'We get up there, we can drop down on them and fuck them in their arses!'_

Her resistance lessened some but not by much, she really didn't like the idea of leaving her pack behind again. But Grey Wind's desperate shoving at the doors, accompanied by Lady's own worried barks and that of her wolves finally seemed to spur her into action. She gave out two sharp barks to her wolves, head indicating the door, and then they were off again. 

The way up to the gallery would be close, a side passage somewhere close to the hall. Somewhere with...

 _'Stairs!'_ Jon shouted, Nymeria's eyes nearly missing them as she ran through the hallway. His shout in her head called her back and she bounded up them.

 _Please let this be the right one_. There wouldn't be time to go back and look again. Up the stairs they went, until there were none left to climb and there was only a small opening in the wall. Blood hit his senses again, now coming like a river through Nymeria's nostrils and into his own. They'd gotten it right.

He felt the need to kill flood through his being and after staring at the smug smirks on those disgusting faces he couldn't be entirely sure it came solely from his sister's Wolf. Why hold her back? Let loose, let them feel the fury of the North. It would be so easy...

Maybe Nymeria growled, maybe he growled and she did it for him, maybe that one Frey had some ears that actually served as more than just an ugly framing device for his face. Either way, the nearest Frey turned, his eyes fixing on theirs. 

 _'Shit!'_ He acted before he thought. 

One second he was looking at the Frey, the next he was staring back at Nymeria who was now tilting her head in confusion. A moment later she shook it off and took a sniff, eyes returning to him. He wanted to tell her it was him, she'd probably mail him if he didn't say something soon, but the strain on the link was immense, downright painful, showing as his borrowed face twisted into a grimace. 

But Nymeria needed a sign, she was already setting up to pounce. So, gritting teeth that weren't his and ignoring the growing cry for his own body again, Jon lifted a hand to his lips and gave her a mimed 'shush.' It seemed to do the trick as Nymeria pulled back some, though her eyes stayed on him. Still, he was convinced that she wouldn't be ripping his borrowed limbs off just yet so Jon turned to face the rest of...

 _Oh..._ His entire being turned to ice.  _Gods..._

Stories. He'd only ever heard stories about the Red Wedding. How Robb had been betrayed by his uncle's bannerman, how his and Grey Wind's heads had been hacked off and swapped around, how they had been paraded outside the Twins for all to see and mock and jeer at.

Jon thought he'd been prepared for what he would see...

Red. 

Red and only red. 

He couldn't see the stones of the hall's floor, only red. 

Red and bodies.

Men with their throats cut out, slumped forward on the tables where they'd been feasting. Men stabbed in the belly and tossed to die on the floor, leaking out the new colour of House Frey's hall. Men shot with crossbows from above, some pinned to the walls where they'd been knifed by their hosts. One body carried on it the sigil of a merman.

_"My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf...I didn't want more Manderlys to die for nothing."_

Panning closer to the front, his gaze landed on another body...this one's colours a clutched fist.

_"I served House Stark, but now House Stark is dead."_

Closer still and now he could see what women remained after the bedding ceremony...and Jon almost threw up. That face, he recognised that face. He'd lit her pyre himself.

_"But House Mormont remembers! The North Remembers!"_

It was older to be sure, but the long look that held a certain strength, probably could pull a terrifying glare if she thought the men and women around her were acting stupid. She was fair like that. Who else but a Mormont could look like that even in death? 

And just to the right of her...a grey cloak over darker grey clothing...red hair and was that a beard? Jon found himself almost laughing; he'd always wanted a beard, wanted the proper Northern look but could never quite grow it properly. Looked like he'd finally done it. 

 _Too late..._   _I was too late..._

Robb lay on his front facing away from the gallery, two quarrels embedded in his shoulder, arms reaching out to a woman Jon didn't recognise but the darker skin and somewhat thinner build told it all: She was the one. The foreign woman Robb had loved, breaking the oath he swore to House Frey to be with. Her stomach was filled with knife holes, face etched in horror, her hand clutching to it even though she was long dead...

 _No...oh Gods, please no!_ No one had ever mentioned Robb had gotten her with child! 

Suddenly Jon's sight failed, the tugging of his inexperienced body joined by the one he'd stolen feeling his unbalance and fighting to regain control. But that served it nothing, though the eyes had rebelled, Jon could still see it - would see it for the rest of his days: Robb and his wife and his baby...butchered. 

The ice melted. Deep within him something stirred, terrible and powerful and burning...

 _Say it._ Nymeria was right there, she could smell what they'd done surely.  _Say it! Let her loose on them!_ It would be better than they deserved. Dragonfire was better than they deserved.  _Flaying_ was better than they deserved! He just had to say the word. Or sing the song.

The War Song. The battle hymn. Sing that and Nymeria would be compelled to behave and act in ways even she might not be aware she was capable of. No one south of the Wall knew the song, very few knew of it in the North and even then only the Giants could truly comprehend what it meant: the call for nature itself to take up arms.

 _'So sing it,'_ the deep burning thing whispered,  _'and taste victory. Sing it and grasp justice!SING IT AND BUTCHER THEM ALL! **SING IT JON SNOW!!'**_

"The King in the North arises." An ugly voice cut in, followed by an ugly laugh.

 _What?_ Sense slammed back into Jon's mind, the flames doused, ears pricked up and he heard a pained grunt. He dared not move the body, but the head he didn't waste a second turning, sight returning to him, to look down at the bloody hall again.

Robb was moving, staggering, dragging himself closer to the Essosi woman and all but collapsed beside her, weakly pulling her up from the bloody floor into his arms. 

 _He's alive!_ His borrowed face pulled into a breathless smile, Robb was alive! There was still time! 

A nudge at his side broke off his merriment and he turned to look at the ugly face of another Frey who was also smiling, his though had a smattering of bloody intent as he nodded down at the scene below them and held up a crossbow with a loaded quarrel. 'Wanna have another go?' that look said, and with it Jon remembered what he was inside. Whatever return he intended was cut off as the Frey shoved the crossbow into his hand and leaned over the gallery to leer at the red scene below.

"Lord Walder!"

That voice...a woman's voice...a voice Jon knew as well as he knew his Father's, though for cooler reasons.

All eyes and weapons now turned one to the right, all pointed at the face Jon had all but forgotten had been here too. Catelyn Stark had a quarrel in her shoulder, she was bleeding heavily...but she stood tall, one arm wrapped around a girl's neck with a knife in the other held to her neck.

"Lord Walder, enough!" She shouted to the man Jon couldn't see beneath the gallery, terrified but still not backing an inch. "Let it end! Please! He is my son! My  _first son!_ Let him go and I swear we will forget this! I swear it by the Old Gods and New, we will take no vengeance!"

"You already swore me one oath right here in my castle." The ugly voice - Walder Frey's - responded, fouler with the anger and loathing in his tone as he addressed the Lady of Winterfell. "You swore, by all the Gods, your son would marry my daughter!"

"Take me for a hostage!" She pleaded, her own captive whimpering as the knife pressed right against her throat. "But let Robb go - Robb!" She turned to call to him. He'd lain the woman back on the floor, but that was all he'd done. He remained kneeling in her blood, eyes resting on her as if she was the only thing in the world that mattered. 

"Robb!" Catelyn called again louder, which gave away her growing panic - something Jon was sharing,  _why wasn't he moving?!_  "Get up! Get up and walk out! Please!"

But he didn't, just remained where he was as if resigned to his fate... _Get up, Robb! Please!_

"PLEASE!" Lady Stark's own plea with her son echoed his, bouncing off all the walls and returning to her. And still Robb did nothing...and suddenly Jon didn't see his brother or a red hall but ash and a tiny trickle of blood, not tanned skin with dark hair but moonlight flesh and silver locks. In that instant he knew that, other than an outside force making him do so, Robb would never move again.

"And..." That voice again, dripping with mockery, "why would I let him do that?"

At his words, Lady Stark turned back around...and Jon was hard pressed not to see the future Lady of Winterfell rather than the current one. There was only ice in her stare, cold precision dictated the grip her arms had on the girl and the blade, snow blanketed her voice. "On my honour as a Tully, on my honour as a  _Stark,_ let him go or I will cut your wife's throat."

 _And I will feast on the bodies of your sons!_ He'd already gorged himself on more Frey in one night than he ever did in his last life, what difference would a little more make now? A near muted growl from Nymeria, still hidden in the previous passage, sounded her agreement with such a plan. He had a loaded crossbow with only one quarrel but that was alright, his arsenal stood right next to him.

Another pained gasp and his eyes left the premonition of Sansa Stark to fix on Robb. At last he had stood but his motions were slow and filled with pain, even if he could walk he was in no shape to fight. And there were all those Freys on the ground floor, Grey Wind and Lady were of no help to him behind those doors and he was no use up here with Nymeria.

The tugging between his body and this one was getting worse, his vision slipped again...Did Walder Frey say something? 

"Mother..." A boy's voice called out...

Footsteps, close to Robb and coming closer. Not clumsy or stupid like the Freys' - purposeful, direct...Northern...he smelled like sweat and calm...and treachery. The eyes snapped back on.

There was a man down there of average size, plain faced and pasty skin, hair short cut and little in his expression to determine his mood. But he was approaching Robb...too close...

He put a hand on Robb's shoulder. 

"The Lannisters send-"

**"BOLTON!"**

Was that him? It didn't sound like his voice. But Roose Bolton suddenly looked up and away from his target, surprise at hearing his name used so viciously by his allies before jerking back as a crossbow bolt slammed into his left shoulder, throwing him to the ground. His arm was still on Robb though and so he went down too.

His senses returning, Jon suddenly realised he'd lifted this Frey's arms and pointed the crossbow at the Leech Lord.  _He_ hadloosed the weapon. And in doing so brought everything to a halt. 

All eyes were staring at him now, from the ground floor to the dais, Stark and Frey alike were looking at him. 

"Oi!" Someone said next to him, angry and surprised. "The fuck're you doin'?! 'e's not on th-agh!" 

A knife was suddenly in his throat, wielded by the body Jon was using as if it had developed a new will of its own. He barely noticed the body collapse and the other Freys start shouting at him, ducking down under the next Frey who tried to pommel him with his crossbow and using the knife to slice open his leg and shove him into the two remaining Freys, dropping them into a pile. 

"What in all fucking Seven Hells is going on up there?!" Walder Frey called up, worry for the first time entering his voice to join his anger. "What treachery are you bastards pulling?!"

He didn't deign to answer, ducking down behind the gallery and pulling a fresh crossbow from one of the Freys he'd downed. Useless against all of them...so why not get down there? Looking over the wooden wall he caught sight of one of the Freys staring up at them. Only fitting that these bastards secure Robb's freedom, though it wouldn't do to leave these chaps alone up here... 

_"Mag Ulf..."_

His call cut off as he jumped into the Frey he'd made eye contact with and suddenly he was stood right above Robb, Roose Bolton over to one side as he tended to himself. His brother was far from safe though, now that he was down here he could just make out the continuous assault on the door behind him from the wolves. All eyes were pointed upward right now, including Lady Stark's, and for the first time ever Jon looked upon Walder Frey himself.

For some reason he'd expected a monster, some twisted evil thing that couldn't even be called human...but he was just a man. A bitter, greedy old man...

He was going to taste awful.

_"JAK!"_

Eyes dropped down again but it was too late, the knife in this Frey's hand he threw at the furthest one and pulled another from the nearest which he then used to slit the man's throat. At the dropping of two more Freys, and a certain rabid snarling above as Nymeria went to work on the band, the rest finally got their act together. 

"What are you waiting for, you worthless sons of whores?!" Walder Frey croaked out furiously, "Kill the fucking traitor!"

His order did the trick and the mass moved on him. Too close to Robb. Time to jump.

With so many knives and crossbows coming his way it was a simple thing to do, a quarrel suddenly filled his previous host's eye-socket. Not good, now he was too far away from Robb. Bashing the other crossbow holder in the face, he turned his eyes on the dais and the two Freys standing either side of the head of their House. Perfect. He jumped again even as Walder Frey screamed at his latest treacherous get only to yell in terror as the man right at his side pulled his knife and killed the one on his left. 

Hearing him cry out, the Freys left their butchery only for another to drop as Jon put a hole in yet another of their number and jumped again. 

This time he didn't do anything, Frey was shouting at Frey, finger pointing at finger, accusation at accusation. One last insult from Lord Walder himself, naming them all traitors and shits who should have been drowned in their own birthing waters, and the lot of them set upon each other. Chaos reigned as one Frey put a dagger in the other's eye, whilst two went rolling on the floor punching and kicking each other like children. Others did other things, but Jon cared little and less for the brawl. The whole thing was far too close to Robb.

The host he'd chosen this time stood right behind Lady Stark herself, knife ready to slit her throat. This one had to be Black Walder, that was the story he'd heard. Roose Bolton for Robb, Black Walder for Catelyn.

 _Lady Stark..._ The things he'd wanted to say to this stunned woman, her eyes focussed upon the implosion of this treacherous family. All the words he'd wanted to say, the proof he'd wanted to throw in her face that her husband had never been unfaithful...and he found it all trickling away as her eyes dropped to Robb, his borrowed face pulling a bitter smile. If she knew what he'd done...

All that work to prove her wrong, that he loved his brothers and sisters and would never usurp their place, only for the Lords of the North themselves to name him King over Sansa. All of Catelyn Stark's fears finally coming home to roost. 

_"Jon...it should have been you."_

"You were right, Lady Stark." He found Black Walder's lips saying as the body moved away from her as best he could without gaining Lord Walder's attention. "You were always right...it should have been me."

Did she hear him? Did it matter? With all the blood flying he didn't have time to see. Looking back to the fray of Freys, he tried to find one close to Robb. The mass of violence he'd started up however resulted in the hosts he would choose turning into useless corpses a second later. It was too much...

And then Roose Bolton stood, still nursing his wounded shoulder but his pale eyes quickly found Robb. At the sight of him, all thoughts of warging into another body left his mind and Jon threw himself into the chaos. A fist to the man's face sent him to the ground, maybe this time he'd stay down. Once again he was right above his brother and this time he didn't hesitate to pull him up onto his feet.

"Robb! Robb, can you hear me?" His brother's gaze was blurry and far away, his stance listing from one side to another as if he were drunk. Blood loss did that.  _Shit, he needs a maester!_ But more than that he needed not to fall asleep! "Robb, don't close your eyes! You hear me?!"

His bobbing head seemed to hear that and he looked Black Walder right in the eye, not quite comprehending what he was seeing. Not that Jon could blame him. Why would a Frey help him? 

"Black Cunt!" A Frey came lunging out of the rabble, knife in hand and Robb in the way.

Once again, Jon let his instincts do the work for him. An arm ran out in front of his fragile brother's body and a second later something hot and sticky was trickling down it. Pain would come later but for now Jon used the offending Frey's momentum against him, spinning whilst keeping the man running and then stopping still just in time for the one remaining Frey at Lord Walder's side to put an arrow in him. Looking up he saw that the dais was now empty of the old man.  _Where did he...agh!_

Thoughts on that were cut off as a sharp pain struck his head, the link couldn't take much more of this. His head was ringing! Too much noise! The fighting around him and Nymeria's howl didn't help as she leapt down from the gallery for her turn with the Freys. And the banging at the door...too much...his vision went dark again...

 _No! Not yet!_ Clawing his way back into command, Jon pulled Black Walder and Robb both around the hall, making for the doors. He didn't listen to the shouting and cursing and dying, it didn't matter. Just Robb,  _only_ Robb! They were nearly there! 

Another body got tossed their way, Jon just kicked him in the head but now the fight was starting to die down. Those Freys still living started to realise one or two of them weren't partaking in this impromptu culling, voices of reason shouting for them to stop and pointing at him and Robb.  _They'll be on us any second._

Spinning round, Jon pulled Robb's lilting head to face him. "Robb listen! You've got to move, get to the door and get out!"

The first Frey came, a longsword that looked too well made to be his in hand. Jon moved around the awful lunge, grabbed the offending handle, and punched the Frey hard taking up his weapon as he fell and gutting him as quickly as he dared. Turning back, he all but shouted in Robb's face which had dropped down again to stare at the act. "Get out of here, Robb! Run! Run n-ah!"

The head of a quarrel suddenly greeted his eyes, going right through his shoulder. Biting back the pain, Jon kept his desperate gaze on Robb and spread his body as wide as he could.

THWACK! Another one, this time in his left armpit. "Dammit Stark, run!"

"...Jon?" Recognition blazed in his brother's eyes, warring with disbelief as they tried to work out how he could be here. "Jon?"

"Not now Stark!" Gods trust the fool to focus on  _who_ it was saving him instead of saving his own bloody skin! Honourable idiot! Another banging, just had to hold out a little longer...just a bit longer...so close... "Get out, get to Lady and Gre-AGH!"

PAIN! Shooting through his being from his head to his toes. This wasn't a crossbow bolt or a knife blade, it went deeper. The link was burning, tugging, _screaming_...and this time it couldn't be stopped.

 _No! NO!_ Another quarrel ran its way right through Black Walder's belly, throwing him forwards. Scrabbling as best he could for any kind of purchase, Jon grabbed hold of Robb's shoulders begging for it to pass. Not now. He'd done it! He was there! Robb was going to be safe! HE COULDN'T GO NOW! 

PAIN! Localised this time in his shoulder and it tossed him back leftwards. Someone was attacking his body, his real body!

"Grey Wind?"

Something snapped.

**_NO!_ **

Robb vanished. 

* * *

If he'd left his body sitting up, the force with which his essence slammed into him would have broken something. The full moon and the stars hung overhead.

Deep breaths were all Jon was capable of, his body was broken, his mind barely any better. What happened!? Who attacked him?! HOW DARE THEY ATTACK HIM!? DID THEY HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THEY'D DONE?!

His eyes, burning with anger, drooped to the side where the pain had been focussed: an arrow, long and thick, stuck out of his left shoulder. Ygritte? 

Suddenly the moon's glow was overcast, first he thought by a cloud but when he turned his gaze back upwards he saw it was a man...several men in fact. All of them dressed in black, one of them holding a bow with an arrow nocked and drawn. 

Crows...he'd been stopped by the fucking Crows?! What the fuck were they even doing here?! 

His answer came as two of them parted and the leader of their group came to loom over him.  _No..._ Of all the fucking cunts he'd known he'd have to suffer again, why him?

"Lord Snow." Ser Alliser Thorne greeted him in his unforgettable surly manner. "Fancy meeting you here, and in such...interesting attire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Your tears are all the pay I'll ever need."
> 
> A Silver Stag to the clever person who can work out the irony of my choice of chapter name. It is ASoIaF related so we're not leaving Planetos. If you can't guess it by the time I upload the next chapter, I'll tell you in the notes of the chapter that follows it.
> 
> I posted this one right after it was done so the wait for the next chapter is going to be a bit longer. It will come though.


	10. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living Legends, Nightmares, and a world of Darkness.
> 
> Because after that roller coaster of a chapter we need some breathing room. I'm not just talking about you, my nerves are fried as well. Do you know how many times I had to rewatch the Red Wedding for those two chapters? It hurts!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now introducing the man, the myth, the legend, the first in 8000 years to slay one of the Others and the guy who should have been writing the 'Song of Ice & Fire' in-verse! Gods damn you D&D. Yeah, that's what I take the most issue with from Season 8...
> 
> Hey, where're you all going?

**Samwell**

When he'd first arrived back at Castle Black and told Maester Aemon everything that had happened - from the start of the Great Ranging to the battle at the Fist of the First Men and finishing with the mutiny at Craster's - Sam foolishly thought that would change his lot here. Three days after sending the ravens south, pleading for aid, soon quashed those hopes. No one believed him, why would they? 

White Walkers? They were supposed to be stories to tell the children to scare them into behaving well, a superstition of the North. And he'd killed one. That was probably the bit everyone was having trouble believing, 'Piggy' killing an ancient ice monster? As if. The mockery got so bad that he'd taken to hiding in the library, they were calling him Sam the Slayer now not that it had any good meaning behind it.

 _Gods curse Ser Alliser Thorne._ If he had any sort of bravery, he'd say as much to the surly man's face. But he wasn't and so he didn't. 

The former knight had returned shortly after he had, bringing new recruits all the way from Kings Landing and an even worse temper. They must have laughed him out of the capital when he said they needed men, considering their own war was going on right now. Still some were better than none, Sam had wanted to believe, but it became clear very quickly that all that had come were criminals looking to escape the gallows.

Except for one man, an unpleasant looking fellow, big, broad and jowly with an air of pomposity. Sam knew the sort, people who liked to think the world owed them everything and that it should just be handed to them. His father despised those kinds of people. Not so much Ser Alliser however as they seemed to quickly form the new ruling pair in the Night's Watch.  _Unpleasantness attracts unpleasantness,_ Sam supposed, and quite the unpleasant place it had become. No one would ever mistake Castle Black for being a comfortable abode but at least under the Old Bear there had been some control, now he feared for his life every time he went to get supper from Three Finger Hobb. 

 _Gods curse Sers and their Lords! Ser Alliser Thorne and Lord Janos Slynt!_ He wanted to be brave enough to say it.  _Gods curse them all!_ But he wasn't and so he didn't.

Worse still were the other rumours that followed him around now due to who he'd brought back with him from the lands beyond the Wall. Gilly and her baby boy. He'd seen the looks the men gave her when they first arrived and heard the talk that came after. Even Maester Aemon had to question him on that even though he had to know the baby wasn't his, the timing didn't add up at all for that to be possible, and only let it go when he explained that Gilly was one of Craster's daughters. 

Not so for the rest of them, every mocking word under the sun had been thrown at him for supposedly breaking his vows. If Jon was here...

And then the guilt hit him again. Jon. What was he going to tell him when he got back? He and Gilly had run right into his brother and helped him go beyond the Wall with his only help being two other children and a simple giant of a man. Oh and a Dire Wolf as well, couldn't forget that. But that just made Sam feel even more guilty. When they ran from Craster's they'd left Ghost behind.

Was he alright? Did he manage to get away too? Sam hoped so because he had no idea what he'd say to Jon when he got back only to learn that the white Dire Wolf was dead.

All this worrying couldn't be good for a person though and so he went back to what he'd been doing all day for the last week: Reading. Books were safe, they didn't hurt you unless someone was throwing them at you, and there were so many of them. So much to learn, so little time to learn it.

"And what tome are we reading today, Tarly?"

The voice, though filled with amusement, still had Sam leaping from his seat to face his new company. Clad in black robes with his forged chain wrapped around his neck, the man should look the epitome of discomfort yet he stood as straight as his years would allow him and smiled straight ahead courtesy of his blindness. 

"Maester Aemon!" Sam still squeaked out the maester of Castle Black's name, shuffling away from the book he'd been reading as if it were diseased. "S-sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Nor hear me, I imagine, so engrossed as you were in your latest study." The old man noted, still speaking with a ring of mirth in his otherwise slightly chiding tone. "Your friend missed you at supper, Tarly. Surely these old books can spare you a few minutes of your time to eat with her."

With her? Gilly? She'd missed him? "O-oh, I'm sure she had her hands full with her baby, Maester. Surely she didn't need me for that."

Oh, why were his cheeks heating up so suddenly? He was a man of the Night's Watch, women were forbidden to him as well as children. 

"A woman names her child after you, Samwell, and you believe she doesn't wish your presence?" A thin eyebrow raised on Aemon's face as his smile slipped some.

"She didn't know any boys' names." It was a weak argument, he knew that, but he still couldn't work out why Gilly had gone and named her baby after him. If someone was going to name their child after anyone it ought to be for someone wise like Aemon or brave and strong like Jon.

Clearly though the Maester believed his words as little as Ser Alliser would, unlike that man though he let it go in favour of the previous topic. "Well then we must see to these books at once, what could Samwell Tarly find so interesting that he forsakes his duties as a Steward of the Night's Watch? The ravens are most upset."

Oh, was it his turn to feed them today? Oh dear, he didn't like what he was going to end up doing to make up for that oversight. Probably make him dig a new latrine pit. Sam hated latrine pit duty. It stank. 

Well he'd done it now so he might as well own up to the act. "The  _Jade Compendium._ " He told Maester Aemon, moving aside some as the old man made his way over to inspect the book for damage. "There are some fascinating passages in it, as well as stories from Essos regarding the Priests of R'hllor. Did you know, the Red Temple in Volantis is three times the size of the Sept of Baelor in Kings Landing? I've never seen either, but Starry Sept in Oldtown is quite big itself. Imagine how big the temple must be then..."

"Ah yes, the Red Priests." Aemon murmured, sounding to be speaking more to himself as his fingers danced along the open page before running a bony finger down the side until they rested on a specific page. For a moment Sam thought he might turn the book to it but then a shadow seemed to fall over his features and he let the book go. "There are many stories and legends that can be found in this tome, Tarly, but if it is knowledge you seek I suggest you look elsewhere. No good has ever come from trying to understand such things."

That...was a confusing statement. "But Maester...the Others, White Walkers, whatever we call them...they're legends and stories too. Maybe we ought to be looking there for answers."

"...Perhaps." Aemon conceded, though it looked as if he truly didn't want to entertain such an idea. Maybe it was because he was a maester that he disliked such, after all such things resided outside of the world of fact and reality that the maesters of the Citadel sought to understand. 

Sam was about to question him further on such thoughts when suddenly a horn blast echoed throughout Castle Black, freezing him solid. Not now, surely they couldn't already be here! He held his breath, waiting to hear the other two blasts. Two for wildlings, three for...them.

But no other blast came.

"Rangers returning." Aemon stated with certainty, though Sam noted he too seemed to relax some at the lack of additional horn blasts. Although he was frowning some. "I believe that was the southern horn though...Ser Alliser made better time than I'd hoped for."

Ser Alliser...from the south...  _Oh no._

The moment he'd returned, Ser Alliser had demanded an update on the goings on of the Great Ranging. Not much had reached him on that front considering everyone save him was probably dead...but then two nights ago a lone rider had made his way to Castle Black, shouting that there were wildlings south of the Wall and heading their way. At first no one had cared much for such words, what would it matter anyway? They were unwashed savages, surely their walls would keep them out.

But then the rider had described the likeness of one of their party that had matched that of Jon Snow and suddenly everything changed. At once Ser Alliser had gained an ugly look of triumph which, after explaining that he was Lord Eddard Stark's bastard son, Lord Janos Slynt soon shared and all but demanded Jon be found and hung as an oathbreaker.

 _Madness,_ Sam had thought to that, Jon had sworn the same vows as he had under the same Weirwood Tree on the same night. Everyone knew that he would never break his word, he was too good of a person for that. He couldn't say it though, and had cursed himself for his cowardice. In the end it had been a combined effort of Maester Aemon and the blacksmith Donal Noye that had lessened Jon's fate to a hearing once he was brought back to Castle Black alive.

That had left the Lord and the Ser with sour looks but when half the remaining brothers of the Night's Watch echoed their statements - many voicing how the Lord Commander had chosen Jon as his personal Steward - they'd had no choice but to accept the demand. Ser Alliser had left with a group of men, none of which particularly liked Jon, leaving First Builder Yarwyck in command although he was just a mouthpiece for Lord Janos.

To his shame, Sam had prayed that Jon would get back first and they could have rallied some sort of defence for him, maybe even forced Ser Alliser and Lord Janos out of their supposed command. He ought not to think such things of his fellow brothers, but Ser Alliser didn't like him and Janos Slynt hadn't even sworn his vows yet. But to hear the horn blast now...

Fear filling his belly, Sam abandoned the books and the library as quickly as his large mass would allow, running through the corridors of Castle Black and out into the yard in time to see the gates open and Ser Alliser's party return. Seven men they totalled, accompanied by a new black horse without a saddle...and chucked over its back, hands tied and an arrow in his shoulder was the face he'd hoped they hadn't found.

"Jon!" 

Not caring for how it sounded, Sam rushed down the steps into the yard where a crowd was already gathering staring up at their brother. Oh it didn't look good, where was his black cloak? Why was he wearing sheep skin? Where was Longclaw? Oh there it was, held by one of Ser Alliser's men who tossed it to someone in the crowd.

"Oh, and here he comes." Sam did his best to ignore the former knight, he really did, but then he stepped in between him and Jon to sneer down at him. "Lord Snow's darling Piggy, Sam the Slayer, come to protect his fellow oathbreaker."

 _He's not an oathbreaker!_ He wanted to shout, even as some in the crowd began to follow the knight's jeering with their own.  _He's a better man than you'll ever be and you hate him for it!_

Instead he just tried to get around Ser Alliser but the taller man cut him off at every try. "Where are you going, Piggy? Going to whisper your conquests in Lord Snow's ear? I think not."

"He needs help!" Was that him? Didn't sound like him. Still the strange voice that couldn't be his went on. "He's got an arrow in him for the Gods' sake! Let him see a healer."

"And why would we waste our time with such nonsense?" Oh there was that new voice he was starting to hate and he turned around to face the jowly smirk of Janos Slynt as he too turned hateful eyes on Jon. "The bastard's broken his oath, clear enough if you ask me. Look at him, he's even dressed like them! Not surprising really, given the treacherous nature of his father."

There was a round of 'ayes' from some following that, Ser Alliser's sounding the loudest. 

"But...but he was supposed to get a hearing!" Sam squeaked up, wherever that brave need to shout had come from it was going away as he slowly realised just how many people who didn't like him or Jon there were surrounding them. "He's a brother of the Night's Watch!"

" _Was_ a brother." Lord Janos stated with finality. "Why waste time on a hearing? Let his precious tree gods decide if he's of any worth."

"That is not for you to decide, Lord Janos." Suddenly the clamour died as Maester Aemon, help by his aide Clydas, made his way down the steps into the yard. His presence had an odd effect on all the men, both for Jon and against him, and they parted like waves to let him through though angry glares were still fixed on each other as he passed by. That, Sam realised, was the power of a Targaryen; far from home, no real power, and blind to boot...yet still people deferred to him. 

The man who could have been king patted his aide's hand once and immediately Clydas let go, his hands trailing along the horses and then Sam's shoulder until he stood facing Ser Alliser. "Brother Thorne, I believe it was decided that Jon Snow would speak for his actions, was it not?"

"Yes Maester." The man answered, though his glower was now growing stronger at having to be reminded of that. "However I think that-"

"And was it not decided," Aemon Targaryen cut him off, voice sharp and authoritative, "that he should be brought home to us unharmed?"

"Yes, Maester." He was practically grinding his teeth now at this reminder. It'd be funny if Sam didn't feel so afraid for his and Jon's lives. "But considering his attire-"

"Tarly." Aemon cut in, not turning his unseeing gaze from Ser Alliser for a moment. "Bring Jon Snow to my chambers at once. With some luck his wound can still be treated without any permanent damage done to him. He will face the justice of the Night's Watch and no one else's."

Sam got started the moment he heard the maester's instructions, not daring to look at the men around him lest he see some intention to slit his throat as they'd tried to do to his friend. That arrow had black feathers, he saw as he tried to get Jon down from his horse, who was to say they hadn't tried anything on the ride back?

He tried to be careful in getting Jon off the horse, but a small shake was all it took for him to come sliding off and he nearly went face first into the mud but then another arm reached out and grabbed his wounded shoulder causing him to groan in pain. 

"Easy there, Snow." Pyp muttered, shifting his grip under Jon's side as another pair of brothers came around to help him off his horse. 

By the time he was off Jon was being carried by eight men all of whom hadn't gone looking for him, his own personal guard it seemed. Still they could be a little more careful and Sam said as much as he went with them up the steps to Maester Aemon's study. He barely heard the sharp words Ser Alliser had with Maester Aemon nor the scathing yet polite retort the wise man had for him, his friend was hurt and he'd be damned if this lot hurt him further.

Maybe it was his words that did it or the pain was finally too much for him to sleep through it, but as they entered the study and lay him down on the operating table, Jon's eyes slowly pulled open and he looked right up at him. 

"Sssam?" His voice was barely more than a whisper and a pained one at that.

"It's alright now Jon," He told him back, placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder and pushing him back down, giving him a reassuring smile. "Maester Aemon'll be here soon. We'll have that arrow out in no time. It's alright. You're home."

Did he hear his words? Sam hoped so. Soon enough Maester Aemon joined them and tossed them all out so that he could work on Jon. Most of them decided that was it and went back to doing what they'd been doing before the party returned. Sam however stayed by the door to the maester's study, Pyp too though he barely noticed him.

"He'll be alright." He told himself again, hoping that he believed it this time. "Jon's always alright."

"He better be." Pyp muttered, smiling a deprecating smile at him. "Wouldn't do for Ser Alliser to hang a cripple."

**Jon**

Maybe it was the arrow in his shoulder that triggered it...or the fist to his face after he tried to rip half the fucking Crows apart...or maybe just the fact that he'd been awake for nearly two days straight due to the longest and most dangerous act of warging he'd pulled to date - whatever it was Jon was dizzy as a green boy after his first swig of ale. 

That's probably why he found himself sitting in a wooden chair staring at a flaming hearth, the rest of the world around him shrouded in mist. He was dreaming again - of a celebration of the living triumphing over the dead, of Tormund singing his praises...of his Queen being ignored. Part of him had wanted to seek her out, to say...something...but instead he found himself here staring into the fire. 

He should be happy that it was over...and yet, with what he knew now, it felt like the world was still beating out a bloody rhythm on is skull.

 _I'm not a Stark._  All those times he'd said it had been carried with a silent 'it is what it is, nothing more' but now those words carried another meaning. And it broke his heart.  _I'm not a Stark because I never was one to begin with._ How was he going to explain this to the others?

Sansa...well she was pretty obvious in her inclinations, no question how she'd spin such information. But Arya...his little sister...he was going to lose them over this, Jon just knew it.

Gods but he hated Sam right now. Why couldn't he have left it alone? Couldn't he just have one night, one  _minute_ of peace and quiet before the world demanded things of him again?

"Are you drunk?"

And there she was. When did she come in? He didn't know but he still rose on dizzy legs to greet her all the same. 

"No..." But then his head dipped just a tad to the right and he nearly missed a step. Seeing the slightly amused look in her eye he couldn't help a tiny bashful smile before conceding. "Maybe a little."

The look only lasted a moment for it fell away, her gaze holding other feelings besides mirth. Chief among them being grief. 

_Say something you bloody idiot!_

"I didn't know Ser Jorah well," he began, watching her face with every word he spoke, praying that he didn't offend "but I know this: If he could have chosen a way to die it would have been protecting you."

Her face shifted some and for a moment he could just hear Ygritte in the back of his head whispering 'You know nothing, Jon Snow.' So what if he'd died the way he wanted? Of course she would rather he was here.

But what a way he had gone; they'd found them amongst a pile of wight corpses, easily more taken down by that one man than anyone else had managed that night save perhaps Theon, all for the sake of keeping their Queen alive. She'd been distraught however, sobbing into his chest and begging him to stand again. Jon hadn't seen the Mother of Dragons then, just a girl who wanted her loyal Bear back.

That girl was on display again for a moment at his words. 

"He loved me." Of course he did, that had been obvious from their first meeting. She took a step forward, then another, until she was well within reach of him, that red Targaryen dress awakening...something in him that he couldn't name, that always woke when she was present. "But I couldn't love him, not the way he wanted. Not the way I love you."

 _She loves me..._  It was the first time she'd said it...for a moment everything fell away with that simple statement.  _She loves me!_

"Is that alright?" She asked, no trace of a Dragon Queen anywhere in her words. Gods, she was almost trembling...

His lips were on hers a moment later, fuelled by a need that always came when they were alone together: a need to see her, to feel and please her, a need...just a  _need!_ It burned in him as his kiss was met with hers, that equal fire burning just as brightly for him. 

Backwards, she was directing him backwards towards the bed, just a few steps more - Gods his world was aflame again! Flames within and without, kissing and licking him...they were her flames. Her Targaryen flames...

Just like...his...

With a force equal to the burning that called them, ice froze his lust and pulled him away from her, his Queen, his love...his  _Aunt._

She saw what he'd just remembered before he could say anything, the girl disappearing behind the Queen, and she put those steps between them again now with her back to him. "I wish you'd never told me. If I didn't know I'd be happy right now."

Her words echoed his wishes. Why couldn't he forget? Why just for a moment couldn't it be the way it had been before? Wasn't he allowed to be happy? Wasn't she allowed it? Weren't they both well overdue some fucking peace?! Why couldn't he let it go?

 _Because it's wrong._  A voice so like Lady Stark's, taunting him beyond the grave, whispering in his ear.  _Aunt and nephew, brother and sister. Just like the Mad King. Just like the Lannisters...just like you._

She was saying things to him but he didn't hear, finally turning to face her as the words of the woman who turned out be his other Aunt ran on a loop in his head. 

"I don't want it." He never wanted the Iron Throne or the title of King, none of it! Just her...and that was wrong. 

His statement however seemed to fuel the frustration mounting up in her own gaze as she finally turned to face him. "It doesn't matter what you want! You didn't want to be King in the North and they still made you their leader!" 

 _Yes, and I gave it up! For you!_ It would do him no good to say that, he knew. The look in her eyes, exasperation hiding something else...fear. Gods she was afraid. Of him. "Once people know of your true heritage, they'll press you into taking the Throne."

They would press him? She was pressing him now! So much so that, as she fell into the chair at the foot of the bed, he was down in his knees staring up at her. "I'll refuse. You are my Queen. I don't know what else I can say."

He would dip his head but her hands reached out and grabbed his face, keeping his eyes locked on hers. Fingers burning with her Targaryen heat etching their mark in his skin, she commanded fearfully "You can say nothing!"

But he had to, Sansa and Arya deserved to know. He couldn't keep the truth from them, he  _couldn't!_

And then the warmth slipped away though her hands remained, the near panic in her gaze also washing out until her composure was as blank as winter snow. 

"But you did." Even when she spoke it was cold, colder than Sansa's iciest tone, dead and empty. "You told them...you made me  _beg..._ and still you told them. And because of that..."

No...no not again! Jon tried to pull away but those cold hands kept him firm, forcing him to watch as the purple eyes turned blue, the heat freezing out of her save for the tiniest trickle of blood from her lips, his dagger once again in her heart. Cold. Too cold. Winter winds bit at his flesh, sharper than any blade, cutting him to his soul. Where was the fire? Where was his  _fire?!_

"Because of you..." the corpse that wore his Queen's face whispered, heedless to his pleas as he had been to hers.

"No. Dany please no!"

"Winter is coming." Wrong. It was wrong! She should never say those words. Not her!

"Dany  _please!"_

His voice was lost in the snow.

"Jon!" 

He barely heard the call over the winds but he lashed out for it all the same, desperate for any kind of heat. A voice met life, life meant warmth. He needed the warmth! 

"Agh!" His head slammed against something cold and hard and he went back down, not quite sitting but not standing either. Where was he? Nowhere good, it was too cold, where was that voice? That voice meant warmth, where had the warmth gone? 

"Jon!" The voice called again, right in front of him it sounded like. "Jon it's alright, you were only dreaming! It's alright, I promise you're alright now."

That voice...friendlier than any other he'd known, even beyond the Wall with Tormund, braver than he would ever admit...and the beginning of Jon's destruction.  _Breathe!_ Taking his own advice, he took in a breath of cold air and let it out, repeating it two more times, and finally properly opened his eyes to look upon his host. 

"...Sam." In ten years, he'd almost forgotten what his old friend looked like. Odd, his memories always painted him as fatter than that.

The portly man grinned back at him from beyond the frozen bars that separated them, relief seeming to pour from his very being. "I was afraid we'd lost you. Maester Aemon barely finished working on you before Ser Alliser threw you in here."

Maester Aemon? Ser Alliser? He had a vague memory of that cunt standing over him before he passed out from the arrow in his shoulder. But if Maester Aemon had worked on him... "I'm in Castle Black?"

"Th-the Ice Cells to be exact." Sam confirmed, his smile dropping for a worried stare as he looked him over. "We heard you'd gone over to the wildlings. Rubbish of course, but Ser Alliser's wanted an excuse for as long as we've known him."

 _Rubbish, eh?_ Jon barely concealed a smirk, covering his snort for a cough which of course put his friend in a worrisome state again that he in turn just waved off. Well at least he knew why he was so cold now. The Ice Cells were often used to store meat for the Crows, and every now and then as confinement for prisoners. Naturally Alliser Thorne would seek to make him as uncomfortable as possible, good to see his memory of the bastard matched with reality and...wait a sec...

"You were told I was with them?" That hadn't happened last time, he was pretty sure of that.

"Oh yes," Sam nodded, "a rider came from just north of Queenscrown a week ago, said wildlings had raided his home and taken his horses, painted one of them as looking like you. I told them of course that..."

But Jon had already tuned out his words, a rider from Queenscrown? The man who...No, that was far too fantastic, he didn't get breaks like that...if this could even be called such. And then it hit Jon just how long ago it had been since this mystery rider had arrived. A week...he'd been out for nearly as long then, which would be more than enough time for...

"Sam...Sam!" He raised his voice some to silence his friend who was going on about the new recruit, Janos Slynt, and other such things. "Has any news come from the South?"

At his question, Sam's face went blank. Not uncomprehending or guarded, more concerned...as if he knew a truth that Jon needed to hear but was unsure he should say it. Gods it would have been nice if  _that_ had been the Sam who'd known the truth of his birth...but for him to look like that now...Jon's heart plummeted before his friend even began to speak.

"Jon...I..." He started and stopped a number of times before breathing deep and just going for it "we received a raven from Dragonstone two days ago...saying that...your brother...that is...Robb Stark is..."

"Dead." 

He'd failed.

All that work, warging beyond anything he'd ever done in a body that wasn't used to it, enlisting Nymeria, finding Lady, freeing Grey Wind and then storming the hall itself...and it had all been for nothing. His brother, Robb Stark, the King in the North was dead again...and this time there was no going back. He'd had one chance, and he'd failed.

Odd. Jon thought he'd be angrier. 

"Jon..." Sam's voice pulled him out of his wondering at his own apathy, "I'm so sorry."

Sorry? Why was he sorry? He never knew Robb, never played with him, never trained with him, was never jealous of him, had never been so blase in their parting not knowing that they would never see each other again. What the hell did Sam have to be sorry about? 

Instead then, he merely asked. "How did it happen?" What had happened after the connection failed, when the fucking Crows he'd once called brothers had shot him with an arrow?

"I..." he was hesitating again, but again Sam managed to get it out, "he was betrayed by Walder Frey at the Twins, under a banner of peace...they slaughtered him and his entire army at his own uncle's wedding...people are calling it the Red Wedding now."

So it was still the Red Wedding...he hadn't changed a thing.

"But...well, ravens get things wrong all the time!" He was trying to reassure him... "I mean, he could have escaped! He had a Dire Wolf too, right? Ghost saved my life at the Fist and it's not like a castle is that hard to navigate!"

Oh, sweet naive loyal Sam. Jon had missed him. Ten years and not a word spoken between them and now here they were, talking as if Sam had never ruined his life. His best friend trying to assure him all was well like always. 

But there was no time for false comfort. The reality was that Jon had failed, a possible ally and any number of soldiers lost to the scheming Freys and treacherous Boltons; an entire wolf pack decimated out of his stupid desire to mess up the Lannisters' plot, Gods he might even have gotten Arya killed! He'd acted like a stupid little boy, thinking he could write the course of the world to his tune and look what it had gotten him!

 _Kill the boy, you fool!_ He snarled in his own head, blocking out Sam's words that were still spilling useless relief.  _Kill that damned boy before you get everyone else killed too!_

A boy would mourn, he didn't have time for that; a boy would scorn the southern shits and wish them all dead, he didn't have time for that; a boy would want to pull the fucking Crows that ruined his work apart, piece by fucking piece and feed them to Ghost, and he didn't have time for that. 

_The Long Night. That is the enemy that matters. The only enemy that matters. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy right fucking now!_

"Sam." His calling his friend's name silenced him with its firmness. "The Free Folk south of the Wall, what's being done about them?"

Once again Sam clammed up, answering him better than any words, and Jon let out an annoyed sigh at the stupidity of Crows. Prior warning from this southern rider and still the black bastards didn't do a damned thing. Probably wouldn't until the Thenns set fire to the Gift and burned Moles Town to the ground. Would that he was still their Warg King, he'd have half a mind to open the gates and let them at Thorne just for laughs. It'd certainly make his job easier.

But he was the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men. The  _realms_ of Men, not just the lands beyond the Wall, no matter how much he despised the lands south of it. So for now he'd have no choice but to make these dumb fuckers listen himself. 

Sighing, he rubbed his face and tried unsuccessfully to make himself comfortable. "Right, go find someone, tell them I'm up."

"Jon?" 

"They want to execute me, yes?"

"No-not everyone!" Sam protested, seemingly shocked that he was giving in so easily. "There's a hearing first! Maester Aemon made sure of that! You just need to prove to them you've done nothing wrong!"

 _Oh, Sam._ This time he couldn't hold back the laugh that bubbled up his throat, probably unnerving his friend but he couldn't help it. The list of wrongdoing on his part was...well they'd need more ink than they had to spare to write it all down.

Shaking his head, Jon forced himself to stop laughing lest Sam really think he lost his senses north of the Wall and focussed on the information he'd been given. A hearing, good. Best chance he'd get to making these fools listen. Now how best to go about this...

"I...I'll just go and tell someone then." Sam murmured, his trudging away echoing his uncertainty of how well he thought he was right now. Then he stopped, turning back to speak to him again. "I nearly forgot to say, welcome back Jon. Welcome home."

And with that said, he left Jon to his thoughts. Not that his thoughts had anything positive in response to that implication.

 _Home._ Jon snorted in derision at such a statement. Castle Black was not home, the Crows were not his family, and anyone who told him otherwise was either craven or foolish. And seeing as Sam was no fool...

Sighing Jon tried to rid such bad thoughts of his one-time friend, any chance at knowing what home was to him had been lost the moment Sam told him the truth of who he was. The closest he had to that now was the Free Folk who took him in and loved him as one of their own. 

But such thoughts weren't deserved of the Samwell Tarly of here and now. And the Free Folk he belonged to were coming to kill him along with all these men that he hated.  _Funny old world._

Shaking that off, he tried again to think. Running off and rejoining the Free Folk wouldn't serve him anything, Ygritte would shoot him full of arrows and that was if Tormund didn't rip him open with his bare hands. Mance was north of the Wall and nowhere near Castle Black yet. 

So Jon had no choice. If he wanted even the smallest chance of saving Mance Rayder's life, first he'd have to help the Crows. It was the only option open to him.

 _So be it._ Looking down at himself for the first time since waking up, Jon finally noticed how he was dressed. Gone was the sheepskin that the Free Folk had garbed him in, and in its place was a black doublet  _"to go with my black breeches and black boots..."_  he could hear Mance's retelling in his head even as he stared at the oppressive colour  _"the men of the Nights Watch dress in black..."_  his old clothes must have been burnt by now. 

And just for that, even as the doors opened somewhere beyond his sight to admit one of Alliser Thorne's creatures, Jon thought he might just push someone off the top of the Wall.

_And so my watch begins._

**Aemon**

Black. It was the colour many associated with the Night's Watch, most commonly these days marking the shame of the people sent to take the vows of brotherhood. What foolishness, once upon a time that colour, he was sure, would have symbolised the darkness the brave men who swore themselves to this order faced beyond the Wall every day and every night in the name of men and women who would never know theirs.

For Aemon Targaryen though, black had become something of a state of being. He woke to it in the morning and returned with it to sleep. It was his reality. All black. A younger, more foolish version of himself might have marked that as his being the truest black brother of them all. Age had taught him otherwise. He was just an old man who had learned some things of use.

When he'd first realised he was going to lose his sight, he'd locked himself up in the library much like young Tarly often did and read every single book he could get hold of, trying to memorise every word, analyse every possible meaning. It had not been until his dear friend Brynden Rivers had finally broken the door off its hinges to chastise him that he even realised he'd been crying, for surely once he lost his eyes he would be useless.

"I see at times with a thousand eyes and one," he'd told him, "but does that make me all knowing? No, my friend, I know nothing for I only see the world with eyes. You soon will see it with everything that I cannot."

At first he hadn't understood and when the day came that his sight finally did fail he'd screamed and cried and cursed his friend for his pretty words, useless as they were. Brynden gone on a ranging, taking his bow and the ancestral Targaryen Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister with him. 

For all of a moon's turn he acted a petulant child, preparing any number of speeches of retribution against his bloody Lord Commander and his talk of seeing the world differently - he saw  _nothing!_ \- and then word came. Brynden's bow had been found by another ranging party out of Eastwatch, but there had been no sign of Brynden himself. Soon enough, he was declared dead and a new Lord Commander was chosen.

That, Aemon now knew, was the turning point in his life. The moment when he followed his own advice and killed what little remained of the boy in himself, becoming a man in full. After that he worked tirelessly to adapt to this new dark reality he inhabited, how to make his way about the castle with the least amount of help, how to properly listen out for approaching brothers so as not to impede them nor let them impede him, and more besides. Slowly he did adapt and, just as Brynden had prophesied, a new world that only he could see opened itself to him.

His ears heard deceit in even the most convincing of lies, his nose smelled out the concoctions he kept in his chambers even though they were bottled, his tongue tasted the richest of flavours in even the most stale of food...even objects he touched felt more real, imprinting a memory of what exactly they were on his mind so that he might never forget again. 

Truly, he was a privileged man.

His ears now served him again as Clydas helped him to his seat on the high table, the brisk steps of their new recruit Janos Slynt skipping past him to take a seat further along, next to Brother Alliser Thorne. This arrangement was not one he approved of, especially not the recruit, but what was there to do? His world was not theirs and in their world he was but an old man who talked a lot.

Pushing the issue would serve no one, not least the brother whose fate depended on his hearing, and so he merely waited patiently until Brother Thorne finally called out for Brother Jon to be brought in.

To his left he heard the door of the common hall open and close, three sets of footsteps walking until they were centred in the hall then two sets walked away leaving only one. Jon Snow to be sure. 

"This hearing" Brother Thorne grumpily began, "is called to ascertain the guilt of Jon Snow. He is charged with deserting the Night's Watch, joining the wildling raiders, aiding and abetting the enemy and the theft of Night's Watch property."

The way he talked revealed his desire for Jon Snow's death, not a surprise but it disappointed Aemon all the same that brothers would bear such ill will against one another. Thorne had disliked the boy from the moment he came to Castle Black, the son of Eddard Stark who had aided Robert Baratheon in the defeat and near destruction of House Targaryen. 

"How does the accused plead?" Thorne asked, his desire to get to the hanging dripping from his lips.

His question however was met with silence. That silence said mountains worth though and Aemon resisted the urge to sigh, this mutual enmity between Snow and Thorne had to end lest it tear the Night's Watch apart. 

"Did you not hear me, Snow?" The latter asked "What is your plea?"

Still silence. 

"Perhaps he knows he's guilty and thinks his silence protects him." Recruit Slynt, a fulsome tone likely matched with a smile of the same kind. "Not a chance of that, I promise you that bastard. Your father tried the same before he got what he deserved."

Still silence. And then a screeching of wood on stone.

"Speak up now Snow!" Thorne was on his feet. "Your silence serves you nothing but a certain death! Have you nothing to say for your wildling friends? Any pretty wildling whores we should know of? Well, bastard?!"

And still, at that insult, Jon Snow remained silent. What did he hope to accomplish with this? A last act of defiance before the noose? What foolishness! 

"Jon Snow." Aemon took it upon himself then and there to get this going, hoping that the boy would at least speak to him. There was no cause for dislike between them, surely. "Is there nothing you wish to say before we carry out your sentence?"

A pause...and then finally there was a breath from ahead of him. "There is much I must discuss, Maester Aemon, but first may I ask where is the judicial panel?"

"What game is this, Snow?" Thorne spat, his anger at Snow's behaviour vibrating through the table and up through Aemon's fingers. "We stand before you right now!"

Frankly, Aemon was of a mind with the Master-at-Arms. What was Jon doing? Such behaviour wouldn't save his life, indeed it would only make his chances worse. Still, he would do what he could for the lad. "The judicial panel consists of Alliser Thorne of the Rangers, Othell Yarwyck of the Builders and Janos Slynt-"

" _Lord_ Janos Slynt!" The aforementioned recruit snapped, his voice now pointed towards himself rather than Snow. "I was made a Lord by the King himself!"

"Of course, my lord, my apologies." Oh the tiresome game of southern politics, would that all would leave such behind but it was what it was, "Lord Janos Slynt of-"

"My apologies Maester Aemon." Jon Snow now interrupted though his voice was most certainly  _not_ apologetic. Indeed it sounded just as annoyed by Recruit Slynt's attitude as he felt. "But I do not know this Janos Slynt. To what order has he been appointed?"

" _Lord_ Janos Slynt!" The recruit barked again, his words echoing off the walls as he now stood up from his seat, Aemon could imagine that the man's face must be puffing with anger at being so easily written off. He seemed the type. "I was the commander of the City Watch of Kings Landing, boy! You answer to me!"

"Am I to assume then," Jon Snow went on seemingly unfazed by the man's ire, his voice still directed at Aemon only "that this man I do not know has yet to even take his vows? And you would place such a man on my judicial panel?"

Interesting wording that, especially when coupled with that tone. Usually when a man talked about something that was his there were more words to back it up, a product of highborn attitudes believing they were entitled to certain rights. Every recruit from a highborn family started this way at the Night's Watch, Jon Snow himself had been guilty of such attitude...but what Aemon heard from Jon Snow now wasn't entitlement. No...he heard fact. As if Jon owned them and not the other way around. Most peculiar.

Curious enough to hear more from this new voice, Aemon leaned forward. If Jon Snow would only speak to him, whether out of pettiness or some other reasoning that this new voice he'd developed had concocted, then he would get this farce going. If nothing else they could learn more of what happened on Lord Commander Mormont's Great Ranging. 

"Tell us then, Jon Snow, in your own words: How did Brother Qhorin of the Shadow Tower die?" 

"Well, if memory serves," was that...whimsy he heard in the boy's voice? "it was a sword through the belly. Quick and relatively painless compared to what some would have done to him." 

"So you admit to murdering a brother of the Watch!" Thorne again, triumph booming off the walls now. 

Aemon however remained focussed on the voice straight ahead of him. "And...why was he killed?"

Another round of accusations were thrown at Snow to which the boy remained silent over, remarkable restraint he'd developed in his time away. Finally when there was a lull in the verbal abuse, with any luck Thorne and Slynt realising that wouldn't work, Snow replied. "The Half Hand believed the best chance we had at countering Mance Rayder was from within. To do so one of us had to kill the other so the Free Folk would trust the survivor. And seeing as the Half Hand had too many enemies within their camp to ever be trusted-"

"'Free Folk.' Listen to him!" Oh, it would seem Slynt still had a few salvos left in him. "He even talks like one of them!"

"Aye!" The sharpness Snow suddenly snapped back with silenced all but it put Aemon's back up. That voice...that was not the voice of a boy. "I talk like the Free Folk! I broke bread with the Free Folk, fought with the Free Folk! I did all that was necessary to guard the  _Realms_ of Men!"

'You stupid southern shit' went unsaid but Aemon heard it, heard the spite, the derision. Beneath that self righteous speech was a man with far more to do than play this ridiculous game. But he also heard the rest, that word he'd heard before from another of their brothers who had returned to the Wall. The Realms of Men. Realms. Plural.

 _You have seen them too then, Jon Snow._ That would kill a boy to be sure...and yet...

"And yet you break your vows to the Watch that guards the realm to do it." Thorne, it appeared, had not gotten the message. "What, exactly did you gain by running, raiding, and raping with the wildlings?"

"Information with regards to Mance Rayder's plans on the Wall." It would appear Snow's silence towards the rest of the panel had been broken with his outburst, though Aemon would not mistake the tone he spoke with to be conciliatory. "He marches south with an army a hundred thousand strong. He's united every clan from the Haunted Forest to the Valley of Thenn."

"Impossible." Thorne snapped immediately. "You can't get fifty wildlings together without them trying to kill each other."

That seemed to stop the conversation flat...except for a low laugh rumbling over from Jon Snow's position. "Then my eyes must have stopped working when I first saw their camp. He's gathered every village in the forest, brokered peace between the Thenns and the Cave Dwellers, negotiated a ceasefire between Hornfoots and Nightrunners, got the Ice River Clans and the Frozen Shore Men work together. Even the Giants are with him."

A formidable host indeed, Mance Rayder all the more so if he'd truly managed all that Snow was telling them. But for Thenns and Giants to be headed south...

"Giants?" The question was followed with a jowly scoff. "Just how much more are we going to hear? Grumpkins and Snarks? The White Walkers perhaps?"

His mockery however was met with silence, not just from ahead but here on the table as well. A chill had descended on them all, Aemon could feel it even as his own Dragon's blood did what little it could to warm him against the cold. Dark things were moving now and to mock them, even if it came from a recruit, was the height of foolishness.

Finally Snow went on, though his tone was pointed to the man who had jeered at their work, a glare clear in his words. "The band your rider spoke of is led by Tormund Giantsbane, I killed their warg and three others when I broke from them. I was on my way to Castle Black to warn the men here when  _you_ shot me. The signal to begin the attack will be a bonfire, the largest the North has ever seen.

Was it just him, or was the North Snow was speaking of something different to the one Aemon knew?

"Believe me or not, that is the truth." This new Jon Snow stated. "Now, unless you mean to take my head First Builder, Maester Aemon, I wish to return to my duties." 

"You wish?" Thorne again. "I have given you no such leave, Snow."

Snow's voice turned away from Aemon, and a moment later he was glad for it because the tone he used with Thorne was colder than the Wall. "And with what authority do you hold me, Master at Arms?" 

"I am acting Commander in Mormont's absence-!"

"A position you lost the moment Lord Commander Mormont died." Snow stated shortly, still in that cold tone. "In such times, authority passes to the First Ranger. Maester Aemon, was Alliser Thorne made First Ranger in my absence?"

"He was not." Oh, clever boy. Would it pay off?

"Well then," Snow went on, was that a smirk he heard in the lad's tone? "until such time as a new Lord Commander is chosen and names you First Ranger, Ser Alliser, I believe the Maester of the castle has the final say on my life. So, Maester Aemon, am I free to go?"

Who was this person before him? It sounded like Jon Snow, had the same foot falls as Jon Snow...and yet the attitude was completely reversed. What had become of the sullen, somewhat aloof boy who had come to Castle Black? This was not that boy, he was assertive, firm, and chose his words as well as he might swing his sword...and he knew it. Why else would he speak in such a manner to them all? 

And now the rod had been passed to him, a blind man, to decide what was to be done with him. What a curious young man.

"None of us are free." Aemon presently stated, his fingers breaking away from one another to point his left digit in Snow's direction. "But we will not be taking your head today, I believe."

He could feel the discontent come at him in waves from his right, that would certainly cause some friction. An unfortunate part of this play, to be sure, but of them all who else knew what was truly coming for them other than Samwell Tarly and his friend Gilly? No, Winter was on the way and right now they needed Jon Snow. So he merely waved Jon Snow out with a light 'Off you go.' 

There followed a firm set of footsteps, again unlike anything he'd heard from the lad before, the scraping of the latch on the door and then a rush of cold winds blowing in from outside only to be cut off as the door slammed shut again. 

_Well...much to be thought on._

"How dare he?" Ah, Recruit Slynt again, certain to go on about his position in the Capital any second. "When I was Commander of the City Watch I hung men for speaking such ways to me." And there it was.

Closing his eyes was a pointless act but it did allow Aemon to roll them, clearly he'd get no thinking done here. Therefore he gave a gentle tap to Clydas arm and his aide quickly stood from his seat to help him up and towards the steps down to the hall. 

"He can't escape it forever." Brother Thorne growled, though his voice was clearly pointed at his back. "Regardless of how you think it works, I am acting Commander here."

"Yes you are." Jon Snow's words wouldn't save him twice, he must know that as well as they did. Gods help them all if Thorne didn't start listening though. 

"And I don't trust the bastard."

 _In addition to the obvious, I am blind._ But he stayed his tongue there, feeling his way until he felt the banister and took his first careful step downwards. Ser Alliser however was a different kind of blind, the kind most were afflicted with: he saw only with his eyes. But for a man who saw the world the way Aemon did he could say with certainty regarding the report on the wildlings, "He told the truth."

There was a scoff for his trouble. "You can always tell when a man is telling a lie? Where did you acquire this magical power?"

People had been asking him that since before he lost his eyes, how fortunate then that he had the perfect response to that. Therefore without even bothering to turn away from his simple journey downwards, Aemon tossed back over his head. "I grew up in Kings Landing."

And because of that upbringing, the lessons he'd learned at the Red Keep and the Citadel and all this time in the blackness that was his world, Maester Aemon also knew something else: Though he told the truth with the wildlings, when it came to the people around him Jon Snow had lied. 

He said he didn't know Janos Slynt...but the sheer disgust he spoke with carried the wretched taste of experience.

 _Much to be thought on indeed._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we'll stop there. Difficult to write from the perspective of a blind man, let me tell you. Likely won't be doing that much.
> 
> Still not sure I like this chapter if I'm honest. What do you think?
> 
> On a side note, congrats to Evenmoor for correctly guessing the irony of Chapter 9's title. 'We Stand Together' are the words of House Frey, but in this version of events they do the least standing together. Meanwhile, Jon brings three of the Stark Direwolves back together, briefly reunites with Arya without her knowing, and finally got a brief chance to fight at Robb's side. 
> 
> Also, I told someone in the reviews we wouldn't be seeing the South again for a while. After careful consideration of the plot and all I want to get done, I realised we'd have to see it sooner than I originally intended so apologies there. Won't be the Riverlands so at least that's still being kept in the dark.


End file.
